THE  GIFT  OF 
PAUL  CLERMONT 


UNIV.  OF  GALtF.  LWKARY.  LO« 


Books  by 
Warrington  Dawson 

LE  NEGRE  AUX  ^TATS-UNIS 

THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

THE  SCAR 

THE  SCOURGE 

THE  TRUE  DIMENSION 


l= 


THE  GIFT  OF 
PAUL  CLERMONT 

BY 
WARRINGTON  DAWSON 


GARDEN    CITY,    N.    Y.,    AND    TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1913, 1914, 1915, 1916, 1921,  BY 

WARRINGTON  DAWSON 

ALL  BIGHTS  RE8EBVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 

INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

PRINTED  IN  U.  S.  A. 


TO 


THE  GREAT   HEART   WHICH    NEVER    LOST 
CONFIDENCE 

THE  GREAT  GENERAL  WHO  STEMMED  THE 
TIDE  OF  INVASION  AT  THE  MARNE,  WHO 
SAVED  THE  POSITIONS  ON  WHICH  THE 
ALLIES  EVENTUALLY  MANOEUVRED  TO 
DRIVE  THE  GERMANS  FROM  FRANCE, 
WHO  REORGANIZED  AND  TRANSFORMED 
FOR  VICTORY  THAT  PEERLESS  AND 
SUPREME  WEAPON,  THE  FRENCH  ARMY  I 

MARSHAL     JOFFRE 


2129092 


PART  ONE 
HOPE 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 


As  PAUL  looked  upon  Verviller,  the  river-banks  were 
shaded  and  secret  to  the  right,  where  trees  rose  straight 
from  sodded  slopes;  practical  and  animated  to  the  left, 
where  a  tow-path  ran.  An  unkempt  mill  stood  among 
neat  little  dwellings;  then  came  an  arched  bridge  of  stone, 
beyond  which  the  town  swept  in  a  gently  rising  curve. 
A  tall,  thin  church-steeple  rested  with  fairy  grace  against 
a  blue  sky  so  solid  that  it  supported  whole  pyramids 
of  thick  white  cloud.  The  fair,  high  windows  and  tower- 
ing chimneys  of  a  Renaissance  chateau  were  poised  above 
more  modest  houses,  as  the  pearls  and  leaves  of  a  mar- 
quis's coronet  might  rise  over  the  heads  of  a  mul- 
titude. 

But  Paul  saw  it  all  with  resentful  dislike,  and  for  reasons 
simple  and  sharply -defined.  This  was  the  town  where 
he  must  live  and  go  to  school;  to  come,  he  had  been 
torn  from  the  grandfather  he  loved  and  from  the  village 
where  he  had  attained  the  dignity  of  seven  years. 

"Here,  this  is  the  street,"  said  his  mother,  a  woman  in 
the  late  twenties  of  a  handsome,  portly  type,  with  much 
colour  in  her  cheeks  and  a  quantity  of  coarse  light  hair 
about  her  head. 

"The  next,  rather,"  ventured  the  pale,  stoop-shouldered 

1 


2  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

man  in  the  thirties  who  was  driving  them  with  their 
household  goods. 

"I  say  this  one,"  the  mother  re-asserted. 

The  father  obediently  turned  his  horse. 

It  did  not  prove  to  be  the  street,  but  nobody  said  any- 
thing. 

In  Arnan,  theirs  had  been  a  little  rustic  cottage,  close  to 
the  single  road  and  separated  from  it  by  a  garden.  They 
called  it  a  garden,  though  only  vegetables  grew  there. 
Opposite  was  the  village  inn,  to  which  crowds  of  strangers 
came  at  certain  seasons — often  as  many  as  eight  or  nine. 
The  inn  had  a  real  garden,  with  beds  of  roses  and  helio- 
trope, and  great  trellises  of  trailing  wistaria,  and  currant 
bushes  and  cherry  trees,  and  a  fawn  scarce  bigger  than 
a  dog,  kept  enclosed  in  a  corner  with  wire  netting. 

Sometimes,  when  there  were  no  strangers,  the  propriet- 
ress let  Paul  play  here.  He  might  climb  the  lower  limbs 
of  the  cherry  trees,  and  eat  the  fruit;  he  might  wander 
among  the  currant  bushes,  but  only  when  an  older  person 
was  near.  It  seemed  unreasonable  that  he  should  be 
watched  safely  on  the  ground  and  not  when  perilously 
exploring  trees.  In  the  wisdom  of  mature  years — he  was 
at  Verviller,  then — he  reflected  that  few  cherries  ever 
came  within  reach,  whereas  the  currants  lay  at  unlimited 
mercy. 

One  day,  when  none  was  observing,  he  tried  to  play  with 
the  fawn.  The  little  creature  dashed  out  as  he  loosened 
the  door,  and  knocked  him  down.  The  garden  gate 
stood  open,  and  fields  lay  beyond;  if  the  fawn  got  so  far, 
there  would  be  no  returning.  Paul  had  enough  presence 
of  mind  neither  to  cry  out  nor  to  run.  Dodging  behind 
trees  and  bushes,  suppressing  all  unnecessary  noise,  he 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  3 

reached  the  gate  and  closed  it,  while  the  fawn  innocently 
nipped  a  juicy  shrub.  Then  he  called  for  expert  help  to 
assure  the  capture. 

The  road  where  he  played  daily,  and  the  forest  to  which 
he  went  in  fine  weather,  were  unending  delights.  Thick 
and  soft  and  hot  with  its  fine  whitish  dust,  the  road  sug- 
gested wonderful  games  and  adventures  shared  with  little 
Alfred,  a  baby  friend  fully  two  years  younger  than  himself. 
To  the  forest,  he  went  with  his  mother,  who  said  it  would 
be  dangerous  for  Alfred,  and  boys  made  too  much  noise 
when  together,  anyhow.  She  slept  over  her  knitting; 
or  if  it  were  forgotten,  would  send  Paul  all  the  way  home, 
and  be  asleep  under  the  trees  before  he  returned.  He 
transformed  shelters  of  rock  into  bandits'  caves,  and 
stretches  of  bracken  into  jungles.  When  his  mother 
snored,  he  would  play  at  lions  roaring  miles  away  as  they 
galloped  towards  him.  In  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  he 
confided  this  to  her,  and  got  a  smart  rap  on  the  head. 
It  was  his  earliest  lesson  in  discretion. 

Bad  weather,  while  cutting  him  off  from  these  pleasures, 
brought  compensation.  From  the  window  he  looked  out 
to  see  huge  rain-drops  splash  down  the  road.  Figures 
of  men,  hordes  of  men  marching  this  way  or  that.  Or 
again,  women  hurrying  to  the  fair,  each  wishing  to  be 
first.  Sometimes  an  angry  mob  appeared,  and  sometimes 
an  entire  army,  or  two  opposing  armies.  Occasionally, 
they  were  all  the  people  in  France,  going  to  church;  and, 
most  rarely,  thousands  of  priests  and  nuns — all  the  priests 
and  nuns  in  the  world. 

Conversations  with  little  Alfred  who  listened,  and  with 
his  grandfather  who  didn't,  were  his  sole  verbal  opportuni- 
ties. Grandfather  would  sit  very  still  in  a  corner  until 
twilight,  and  then  shake  himself  out  of  a  trance.  This 


4  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

was  Paul's  hour  for  lessons.  If  he  preferred  to  talk  in- 
stead of  thumbing  the  worn  book  or  teasing  scraps  of 
crumpled  paper,  he  met  with  no  opposition.  Doubtless 
imperfect  as  an  educational  method,  the  principles  in- 
culcated were  so  thoroughly  impressed  upon  him  that, 
years  later,  argument  and  punishment  were  powerless 
to  show  him  a  difference  between  "je  etais"  and  "J'ai 
etc,"  or  "sens  alle"  and  "s'en  aller." 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  grandfather  grew  garrulous, 
little  caring  whether  any  heeded.  This  was  the  cherished 
secret  to  many  of  Paul's  imaginings.  Grandmother  moaned 
gently  because  of  her  "pains,"  father  smoked  his  pipe 
over  yesterday's  paper,  mother  sat  with  crossed  knees 
and  folded  arms  and  bent  back,  napping;  while  Paul, 
attentive  little  audience  of  one,  deep  in  his  bed  with 
hypocritically  tight-screwed  eyes,  drank  in  words  about 
the  Franco-Prussian  war,  and  the  Commune,  and  Re- 
publicans and  Clericals,  and  like  things  filled  with  awful 
possibilities,  fascinatingly  evasive. 

His  father,  employed  in  the  tax  service,  left  home  early 
each  morning  on  a  bicycle,  and  came  back  for  a  late  dinner. 
One  night  there  was  talk  of  promotion,  whatever  that 
might  be.  It  meant  they  were  to  live  in  town,  where 
Paul  should  go  to  school  and  prepare  to  succeed  his  father. 
Paul  did  not  want  that:  he  wanted  gardens  and  forests 
and  a  village  road.  He  pinned  his  faith  on  grandfather, 
who  was  to  stay  at  Arnan  with  grandmother,  and  would 
surely  not  let  him  go.  When  the  cart  was  ready,  the  fur- 
niture stacked  in  it,  his  parents  called  him.  He  sprang 
upon  his  grandfather,  beseeching  to  be  saved.  But  it  was 
in  the  morning,  soon  after  sunrise,  and  the  old  man  could 
find  not  a  word  to  say. 

Their  new  home,  not  even  a  house,  had  three  ground- 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  5 

floor  rooms,  with  one  window  opening  on  a  noisy  paved 
street  and  two  on  a  dark  foul  court.  The  farther  rooms 
were  tiled;  the  first  boasted  a  floor  of  rotting  wood.  Cold 
and  sunless,  the  place,  until  recently  a  wash-house,  reeked 
with  moisture.  The  wall-paper  drooped  in  flaps  and 
sagged  in  pockets,  sighing  and  creaking  whenever  the 
door  opened  or  closed.  Garments  which  imprudently 
slipped  from  a  chair  or  a  peg  overnight  were  mould- 
tainted  by  morning.  After  heavy  rains,  Paul's  first 
task  on  leaving  bed,  while  his  mother  made  breakfast, 
would  be  to  clear  away  diminutive  mushrooms  from 
notoriously  favourable  corners. 

This  was  hard  on  his  mother's  nerves,  or  what  she  termed 
nerves.  The  father,  whose  health  had  never  been  good, 
was  luckily  absent  save  at  night,  when  the  lamp  had  a 
warming  and  drying  influence.  As  for  Paul,  if  he  could 
not  be  at  Arnan  with  grandfather,  he  found  Verviller 
no  worse  than  other  towns  fancied  upon  the  same  pattern. 
None  of  the  three  complained.  Had  not  Paul's  mother 
herself  chosen  the  rooms,  coming  especially  over,  a  week  in 
advance? 

Paul  was  taken  to  the  Brothers'  school,  a  big  square 
brown  building  with  double  doors  one  of  which  swung 
alarmingly;  each  of  them  had  a  cross  of  yellow  glass  as 
window  in  the  upper  panel.  The  play-ground  gate  stood 
ajar;  he  saw  long,  low,  narrow  benches  of  discoloured  wood, 
resting  on  legs  straddled  so  far  apart  that  they  must  col- 
lapse under  the  slightest  pressure.  Paul  was  possessed 
with  an  infinite  desire  to  sit  down  on  one,  very  hard. 
For  the  moment,  he  forgot  that  school  was  an  object  for 
righteous  abhorrence. 

They  went  into  a  high  narrow  room,  his  mother  and  he. 


6  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Light  sifted  through  the  crosses  of  yellow  glass,  tarnished 
and  sickening,  upon  the  white  hair  and  pale  features 
of  the  Brother  Director;  it  danced  in  golden  dust-patches 
on  his  black  skirt.  Frere  Alexandra  stretched  out  a  hand 
to  pat  Paul's  head;  it  became  a  greenish,  ambered,  half- 
transparent  talon. 

Cupboards  took  the  place  of  walls.  Frere  Alexandra 
rose  and  went  to  one,  unlocked  it  with  a  grinding  key, 
and  reached  up  to  a  shelf.  Books,  books,  books  were 
stacked  there.  Paul  had  not  supposed  there  were  so 
many  books  in  all  the  world.  The  Brother  took  down  a 
printed  book  and  a  blank  book,  with  hands  now  very 
fine  and  white,  delicately  veined  in  blue.  As  Paul, 
obeying  a  sign,  followed  him,  he  saw  his  mother  leaving 
without  a  word.  Frere  Alexandre  must  be  a  wonderful 
person  indeed. 

Passing  through  a  huge  sad  room  with  benches  against 
the  walls  and  dirty  windows  and  several  doors — the 
play-room  for  bad  weather,  the  pr6au — they  stopped  at  a 
closet  where  a  wrinkled  old  woman  enveloped  Paul  in  a 
black  apron.  It  was  not  new,  but  one  his  mother  had 
made  for  him;  and  he  found  it  here  in  this  place  he  had 
never  seen  before.  He  recognised  a  spot  on  one  of  the 
wristbands,  and  guiltily  identified  a  tiny  rent  on  the  hem 
floating  between  his  knees.  For  weeks  after,  he  puzzled  over 
this.  Yet  it  gave  him  a  sense  of  familiarity  with  the  sur- 
roundings. Besides,  that  rent  might  now  escape  maternal 
vigilance.  For  though  he  wore  an  apron  in  the  house,  like 
other  boys,  he  did  not  go  out  in  one,  like  common  boys. 

Before  Frere  Alexandre  and  himself  two  big  doors  stood 
partly  open.  In  the  dimness  within,  a  microscopic 
light  glimmered  on  an  altar,  and  over  it  a  blue,  starry 
sky  was  painted  so  beautifully  that  Paul  gasped  with 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  7 

delight.  He  hoped  they  would  stop  there  to  pray;  not 
that  he  knew  any  prayers.  But  the  Brother  led  the  way 
up  to  a  class-room,  and  left  him. 

Boys  in  black  aprons  sat  or  sprawled  on  many  benches. 
Facing  them,  with  his  back  to  the  window,  was  the  teacher, 
a  tall,  thin,  blond  young  man  with  a  small  mouth  and 
large  teeth,  and  very  blue  eyes  shining  through  spectacles. 
Terrific  uproar  filled  the  room;  boys,  after  jumping  on  the 
desks,  started  to  race  about.  The  teacher  protested  in  a 
mildly  distressed  manner,  and  was  answered  that  the  "new 
one"  must  be  seen.  Order  restored  itself  gradually  as  his 
charges  tired  of  romping. 

Paul  was  put  on  the  last  bench,  near  the  door.  He  had 
one  neighbour;  of  an  age  near  his  own,  with  pink  cheeks 
and  crisp  curly  black  hair,  and  naughty  sparkling  eyes. 
The  teacher  called  him  Lavenu.  Another  Lavenu, 
big  and  fair  and  bullet-headed,  not  at  all  amusing,  had  a 
place  at  the  extreme  corner.  The  two  were  not  brothers, 
nor  even  cousins.  Paul's  neighbour  told  him  this,  be- 
tween licks  at  barley  sugar.  Quite  remarkable,  how  this 
boy  ran  his  tongue  the  entire  length  of  the  stick  each  time, 
and  then  offered  to  prove  by  appearances  that  he  was  not 
eating,  but  the  stick  was  melting. 

The  printed  book  given  to  Paul  was  an  arithmetic, 
the  teacher  explained,  directing  him  to  study  the  first 
page.  But  these  signs  were  not  the  alphabet  grandfather 
taught;  they  were  meaningless  and  uninteresting.  At 
the  end  of  the  book,  however,  they  grew  in  bunches, 
making  almost  pictures,  with  long  lines  to  hold  them  to- 
gether and  stars  or  crosses  between.  Dipping  his  pen 
deeply  into  the  ink,  Paul  traced  some  of  these  pretty 
things  in  his  blank-book.  They  did  not  come  quite  right, 
but  looked  well  when  circles  had  been  drawn  round  them 


8  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

with  the  help  of  a  piece  of  paper,  a  pin,  and  a  pen.  A 
pencil  would  have  done  better  than  the  pen;  but  then, 
the  ink  splashed  very  nicely. 

Lavenu  approved  of '  these  proceedings.  Only,  he 
would  force  sticks  of  barley  sugar  on  Paul,  who  accepted 
reluctantly,  not  knowing  how  to  refuse  while  not  daring 
to  eat,  and  who  stored  away  six  pieces  in  his  desk.  When 
Lavenu  offered  a  seventh,  Paul's  scruples  weakened; 
refusing  it,  he  plunged  down  after  one  of  the  six  already 
accepted.  To  his  unutterable  surprise,  the  desk  was 
empty.  Lavenu  laughed,  still  holding  out  the  new  stick. 
Paul  grasped  it  and  had  it  to  his  mouth — but  his  head 
somehow  disappeared  into  the  desk,  and  his  hand  held 
nothing  save  a  gluey  sensation.  Lavenu  told  him  the 
sticks  had  all  melted,  and  that  was  shameful  waste, 
and  he  should  have  no  more  barley  sugar. 

At  this  moment,  Paul  was  called  for  his  lesson.  Ner- 
vously filling  his  pen  instead  of  putting  it  down,  he  drew 
it  very  hard  across  the  page  instead  of  wiping  it.  Stag- 
gered by  the  result,  he  closed  the  book,  whereupon  black 
drops  oozed  out  from  between  the  leaves  at  the  bottom, 
luckily  falling  on  his  apron.  Another  fortunate  accident 
was  that  he  had  disfigured  only  the  page  he  liked,  and 
not  the  one  his  teacher  wanted.  He  did  not  understand 
the  questions  put  to  him  as  he  stood  beside  the  big  desk, 
and  answered  Yes  and  No  at  random;  but  was  presently 
assured  that  he  had  done  very  well,  for  the  first  day. 

Shortly  after,  all  the  classes  together  were  turned  loose  in 
the  earthy  yard.  The  bigger  boys  played  games  with 
marbles,  or  with  a  ball  sent  from  hand  to  hand  as  they 
cried,  "Passe I  Passe  toil"  The  smaller  boys  played 
in  circles,  or  in  complicated  scrambles,  or  else  leaped  on 
and  off  the  scatter-legged  benches,  changing  feet  each 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  9 

time.  Paul  expected  that  when  his  immense  weight  was 
thrown  on,  the  bench  would  collapse.  It  resisted,  causing 
him  a  sort  of  disappointed  relief. 

At  the  end  of  three  months,  Paul  and  his  parents  moved 
to  a  little  house  all  their  own,  two  rooms  on  each  floor. 
From  his  window,  he  could  see  trees  and  meadows,  and  not 
too  many  roofs,  and  the  Mareille;  he  could  hear  rumbling 
and  whistling  trains,  and  watch  them  come  or  go.  In 
these  respects,  Verviller  scored.  Yet  Arnan  had  a  charm 
which  increased  as  the  image  dimmed. 

Almost  reconciled  with  the  town,  Paul  was  quite  at 
peace  with  his  school.  He  did  not  have  to  study  much, 
and  Lavenu  abounded  in  subjects  for  awful  admiration. 
The  high-voiced,  owl-faced  teacher  never  lost  patience 
nor  gained  firmness. 

One  month,  Lavenu  behaved  himself,  and  things  were 
dull.  Though  accustomed  to  receiving  the  yellow  certi- 
ficate of  obloquy,  each  week,  and  only  by  miracle  the 
green  certificate  of  tolerable  conduct  and  proficiency,  he 
had  received  successively  three  blue  certificates  reserved  for 
the  elect.  The  fourth  week,  bringing  still  another  such 
distinction,  conferred  automatically  upon  him  the  honour 
of  honours,  a  gorgeous  medal  on  a  brilliant  red  ribbon, 
to  be  worn  for  the  whole  month  following. 

Then  animation  returned  to  the  class-room.  Having 
made  an  effort  in  a  new  direction,  Lavenu  undertook  to 
demonstrate  that  his  former  talents  survived,  open  to 
improvement.  When  Paul  was  pointed  out  to  him  as  a 
model,  now,  Lavenu  would  shrug: 

"He's  a  stranger,  M'sieur.  He's  from  the  country. 
I  was  born  in  town.  I've  got  warm  blood." 

"I  shall  take  your  medal  away,"  the  teacher  would 
threaten. 


10          THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"You  can't.  Mother  has  sewn  it  to  my  apron." 
Such  scenes  generally  ended,  to  the  delight  of  the  class,  in 
a  mad  chase  extending  all  over  the  room.  Then  Lavenu, 
breathless,  would  roll  like  a  ball  under  several  benches 
and  bowl  into  the  teacher's  feet,  to  be  captured  gloriously 
amid  whirls  of  arms  and  legs.  Having  produced  his 
dramatic  effect,  Lavenu  would  finally  retrieve  the  medal 
by  surrendering  with  such  grace,  such  completeness, 
such  tears  of  repentance,  such  starry-eyed  vows  for  future 
perfection,  that  the  long-suffering  teacher  was  helpless. 
And  Monsieur  would  turn  away,  saving  his  dignity  with 
solemn  admonitions  for  next  time,  while  Lavenu,  resuming 
his  place  beside  Paul,  would  wink  broadly,  one  eye  after 
the  other. 

Yes,  school  was  really  agreeable,  on  the  whole.  And 
some  day,  Paul  would  be  privileged  to  play  with  the  big 
boys,  and  would  be  in  the  class  taught  by  Frere  Alexandre. 
That  thin  pale  face  and  tall  black-robed  figure  seemed 
to  be  everywhere  and  to  discover  everything.  A  word 
of  suggestion  in  that  calm  voice,  while  that  clear  look 
sounded  a  boy,  accomplished  more  than  threat  or  punish- 
ment. Useless  to  attempt  deceit;  the  cleverest  argument 
fell  short.  Frere  Alexandre  might  have  been  a  boy  him- 
self, he  understood  so  well  what  had  been  intended.  All 
loved  him,  but  those  in  his  class  loved  him  most. 

Paul  began  to  get  blue  certificates.  The  last  week 
of  another  month  came,  and  the  teacher  announced  the 
award  of  three  medals.  One  for  Jean  Marie,  a  gawky 
boy  who  wore  extraordinary  hair,  straight  and  black, 
hanging  down  to  his  waist  behind,  and  shaved  to  the 
scalp  on  the  top  and  sides;  he  would  allow  intimate  friends 
to  play  at  "  pulling  the  horse's  tail,"  as  he  called  his  back 
hair.  The  second  for  Lavenu — Big  Lavenu,  the  teacher 


THE  GIFT  OP  PAUL  CLERMONT  11 

specified.  Whereupon  Little  Lavenu,  who  had  been 
writhing  like  a  monkey,  proceeded  to  quack  like  a  duck 
and,  catching  both  cheeks  with  his  hands,  flapped 
them  in  imitation  of  wings.  The  third  was  for — Paul 
Clermont.  Howls  of  protest  rose  from  all  the  class,  be- 
cause he  was  the  newest  boy,  and  came  from  the  country 
besides. 

Lavenu  escorted  him  home.  It  was  the  very  medal 
he  had  taken  off  that  morning,  after  kissing  it,  and  from 
which  he  had  removed  the  safety-pin  so  that  it  should 
have  to  be  stitched  to  his  apron.  Still  warm  from  Lavenu's 
heart,  Paul  thought  it  the  most  attractive  of  medals; 
especially  when  that  nice  friend  rooted  out  an  ordinary 
pin,  in  his  shoe,  or  sock,  or  mouth,  or  some  absurd  place, 
and  decorated  him. 

The  two  walked  back,  in  triumphal  procession,  to  the 
Clermont  house;  but  it  was  closed.  Lavenu,  a  youth  of 
magnificent  resourcefulness,  proposed  celebrating  on  the 
river-bank.  Flushed  by  success,  Paul  rashly  agreed. 
Since  he  could  be  neither  at  home  nor  at  school,  and 
loitering  in  the  streets  was  forbidden,  he  must  go  some- 
where. 

By  the  river  they  met  some  friends  of  Lavenu's.  They 
all  played  together  on  the  tow-path,  and  raised  much  dust 
and  unstinted  noise,  and  were  nearly  swept  into  the  river 
by  the  rope  of  a  boat,  and  the  horse  looked  as  if  he  might 
have  kicked  them.  No  more  perfect  day  could  have 
been  arranged.  Then  they  played  singing-games,  which 
Lavenu  led: 

"Une  souris  verte 
Qui  courait  dans  Vherbe, 
Je  Vattrape  par  la  queue, 
Je  la  montre  a  ces  messieurs. 


12          THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Pim-pon  d'or — la  bayette,  la  bayette, 
Pim-pon  d'or — la  bayette  est  en  dehors, 
Avec  un  petit  cheval  d'or, 
Qui " 

Paul  never  knew  what  happened  to  the  little  golden 
horse.  When  he  related  the  affair  to  me,  I  might  have 
enlightened  him,  but  judged  the  detail  irrelevant. 

His  mother  had  descended  upon  him.  He  reached  home 
with  a  breathless  physical  sensation,  and  very  few  mental 
impressions.  But  when  his  father  returned  at  dinner- 
time, the  situation,  from  bewildering,  grew  ominous. 
All  Paul  could  grasp  was  that  he  must  tear  off  the  medal 
and  never  wear  it,  and  that  he  should  not  see  Frere 
Alexandre,  nor  Monsieur,  nor  Marcel  Lavenu,  nor  any 
of  his  playmates  again;  for  he  was  to  be  taken  to  another 
school,  the  Communal  school,  on  the  morrow. 

II 

THE  noise  of  Paul's  hob-nailed  boots  and  the  brilliant 
blue  of  his  linen  knickers  came  to  break  the  harmony 
of  my  reflections  as  I  sat  near  my  window  in  the  rue  du 
Port.  I  had  noticed  this  boy  before,  idly,  in  a  discreet 
suit  of  brown  corduroy  and  blessedly  noiseless  white 
canvas  shoes — as  I  might  have  noticed  man,  pony,  or 
stray  cat.  So  it  must  have  been  circumstances  made  the 
difference  on  that  day  when  our  eyes  first  met  as  strangers. 

He  seemed  not  quite  thirteen.  Under  a  tight  cap  worn 
back  on  an  intelligent  head,  his  dark  hair,  closely  cropped, 
shone  like  velvet  in  the  light  and  marked  clean  curves 
to  the  five  points  surmounting  a  well-proportioned  fore- 
head. Big  round  grey  eyes  were  conspicuous  in  a  pale, 
delicately  modelled  face.  His  lips  parted  on  any  pretext, 
to  show  a  gleam  of  teeth  when  he  smiled  bashfully  and 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  13 

a  full  white  row  when  he  smiled  wonderingly.  The 
sailor-blouse  belonging  to  the  brown  suit  still  served,  its 
broad  collar  and  tie  of  corduroy  displaying  a  graceful 
neck. 

Two  water-jugs,  of  unequal  size  and  both  too  heavy  for 
him,  swung  rather  loosely  from  his  hands;  he  proceeded 
cautiously,  with  an  occasional  sidelong  kick  to  avoid  them. 
Sense  of  management — appreciation  of  balance — instinct 
of  responsibility — freedom  from  the  awkwardness  usual 
at  his  age — so  I  would  have  dismissed  him.  But  as  the 
boy  neared  me,  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  smiled.  A  broad, 
wondering  smile.  My  response  was  a  stare  so  complete 
and  so  conclusive  that  he  flushed,  smiled  bashfully, 
ducked  low,  and  took  several  swift  steps.  Even  while 
hurrying  away,  he  cared  for  his  movements  so  as  not  to 
spill  the  contents  of  his  jugs. 

The  look  and  the  smile  had  implied  that  he  knew  me. 
Why?  I  had  scrupulously  avoided  acquaintances  in 
Verviller.  When  I  needed  an  exchange  of  ideas  I  went 
to  Paris.  What  would  become  of  the  solitude  needed 
for  study,  if  I  were  to  be  watched  and  identified  and 
remembered  here?  A  whole  morning's  work  had  been 
scattered  to  the  winds  by  an  idle  glance  and  a  searching 
query.  Inexplicably,  the  thread  had  snapped,  had  parted 
from  vital  things,  instead  of  lying  at  their  root. 

When  lacking  either  strength  or  leisure  to  reach  a  hill- 
top where  my  happiest  hours  of  ease  were  spent,  I  would 
stroll  by  the  Mareille.  The  tow-path  offered  sure  footing, 
close  to  the  water's  edge.  That  afternoon  I  went  thither, 
to  regain  peace.  But  a  patter  of  steel  points  on  the  soft 
pebbly  earth,  and  a  dazzling  patch  of  colour  which  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  green  of  the  trees,  told  me  my  fate. 

A  little  friend,  barely  half  his  age,  trotted  at  his  heels, 


14          THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

carrying  the  smaller  of  the  jugs— «mpty.  The  boy  him- 
self caught  his  breath,  grew  paler  than  usual,  and  turned 
crimson.  Passing  me,  he  hung  his  head  forlornly,  without 
suggestion  of  the  impulsive  movement;  and  so  went  on 
to  the  water-side. 

Since  morning,  I  had  flattered  myself  that  our  exchange 
of  glances  had  been  accidental.  Now,  I  knew  he  had  had 
some  reason  of  his  own  for  smiling  up  at  my  window;  I 
knew,  too,  that  my  rebuff  had  made  forgetfulness  im- 
possible. Instead  of  greeting  me  again  with  that  smile 
which  would  have  been  harmless  if  unseen,  he  drew  away 
as  if  I  had  injured  him.  And  so  I  had — in  the  shy  sensi- 
tiveness of  boyhood. 

A  peculiar  twinge  took  me  off  my  guard.  Once  upon 
a  tune  I  had  been  sensitive;  many  years  before,  in  a 
country  beyond  the  ocean.  But  I  remembered.  And 
I  had  been  so  born  that  no  barriers  of  wealth  or  position 
marked  me  as  an  inferior.  What  must  it  be,  then,  for 
one  in  an  obscure  station  yet  having  a  nature  perhaps 
even  easier  to  impress?  I  felt  as  if  I  had  wounded  a 
trusting  little  animal.  Strange,  the  emotion  this  caused. 

He  filled  the  jugs,  and  came  towards  me  with  the  double 
load.  I  waited  Dropping  his  head  very  low,  when  a 
yard  or  so  away  he  swerved  to  avoid  striking  me. 

"That's  right,  young  man,"  I  said.  The  tone  had  been 
intended  approvingly,  encouragingly.  But  unaccustomed 
to  such  intercourse,  my  voice  slipped  to  a  dry  under- 
tone. 

Turning  his  eyes  up  to  mine,  the  boy  flushed,  jerked  a 
familiar,  naif  little  nod;  kept  silence,  ducked  modestly, 
impulsively;  and  went  on,  the  jugs  swinging  loosely  in 
his  hands  and  the  little  friend  trotting  at  his  heels. 

Peace  being  made,   our   intercourse   ceased.     Several 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  15 

times  each  day,  as  I  sat  at  my  window  busy  with  books 
and  notes  and  comparisons,  he  would  go  by,  on  his  way 
for  water  or  bringing  it  home;  often  he  directed  glances 
towards  me,  but  ducked  quickly  before  knowing  if  I 
would  answer  or  deny. 

Scarcely  conscious  while  doing  so,  I  would  watch  for  him 
when  I  heard  the  hob-nails,  or  when  my  eyes  caught  a  trail 
of  blue.  I  would  revert  to  my  task  with  an  annoyance 
not  conducive  to  cool  reflection.  But  there  were  mo- 
ments when  I  was  stirred  by  the  idea  that  any  one  should 
take  an  interest  in  me. 

A  day  came  when,  walking  on  the  river-side,  I  suddenly 
found  myself  merging  from  consternation  to  a  sense  of 
pain  in  my  hip  and  coldness  about  my  feet.  I  became 
aware  of  the  boy  in  blue  knickers,  looking  up  at  me  with 
a  surprised  air.  He  had  sat  down  very  unexpectedly 
on  an  overturned  jug,  but  had  not  released  another,  which 
he  held  carefully  upside  down.  At  the  moment  of  our 
collision,  I  had  been  looking  nowhere,  as  I  revolved  my 
problem.  Paul  has  since  confessed  that  he  ducked  when 
recognising  me  at  a  distance. 

He  did  not  stupidly  jump  up  and  pretend  nothing 
had  happened.  Nor  did  he  waste  energy  in  any  sort  of 
exclamation.  Sitting  unruffled  on  the  side  of  one  jug 
and  holding  the  other  as  if  to  drain  the  last  drop,  he  asked : 

"Monsieur  did  not  hurt  himself?" 

"No,"  I  answered  sharply,  with  black  ungraciousness, 
since  his  sole  concern  had  been  for  me.  That  struck  me 
later. 

He  got  up,  very  muddy  in  spots;  one  knee  was  blood- 
stained. 

"It  is  I  who  have  hurt  you,"  I  said. 


16  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Oh — that  was  my  jug.  It  doesn't  matter."  As  he 
finished,  he  collapsed  on  the  stone  bench  near  which  we 
had  met. 

"Don't  be  so  foolish!  Get  off  that  cold  stone  at  once!" 
I  cried,  visions  of  medical  and  legal  complications  flashing 
before  me. 

Slowly  he  drew  himself  together,  and  stood  a  moment 
on  the  sound  leg.  He  glanced  at  the  bench,  then  at  me : 

"Ah!  Because  the  stone  is  cold  and  I  am  hot?-  I 
understand.  Do  you  think  that's  how  I  got  double 
pleurisy,  last  year?  I  should  like  to  tell  you  about  it,  some 
time.  But  your  feet  are  in  the  water  I  spilled.  Be 
careful  you  don't  get  double  pleurisy." 

"I  shall  get  nothing  of  the  kind,"  was  my  retort. 
"  I  am  going  home  to  change.  You  had  better  do  the  same. 
Can  you  walk?" 

"I  must."    Trying,  he  found  that  he  could. 

"The  jug  you  used  as  cushion  is  crushed  flat,"  I  said. 
"Give  this  to  your  mother  to  buy  a  new  one."  I  put 
some  money  in  his  hand,  and  limped  away. 

"Wait,  let  me  help  you!"  called  the  boy.  "Just  two 

minutes,  to  fill  the  jug "  He  held  up  the  sound  one, 

pressing  the  other  under  his  arm.  Methodical  even  in 
emergencies,  I  noticed. 

"Don't  need  any  help;  sorry  I  can't  help  you,"  was  my 
answer.  "Better  have  that  knee  attended  to." 

On  my  way  home — a  painful  way,  I  confess — I  solilo- 
quised : 

"Henry  Aubret,  you  have  bought  freedom  at  the  price 
of  folly.  Consider  yourself  fortunate  though  you  spend 
three  days  abed.  You  will  never  again  be  stared  at  and 
so  prompted  to  a  childish  and  senile  desire  to  stare  back. 
The  imp  will  avoid  you  religiously  for  the  two  excellent 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  17 

reasons  that  he  is  mortified  by  his  mishap,  and  that  you 
have  scandalously  overpaid  the  jug." 

I  was  right  in  only  one  respect — about  spending  three 
days  abed. 

When  I  could  crawl  about  the  house  once  more,  I  heard 
the  bell  ring  insinuatingly.  Aged  Leonie  was  at  her 
marketing.  For  the  sake  of  quietude,  I  had  only  one 
servant.  She  had  not  warned  me  that  a  boy  came  daily 
inquiring  after  my  health;  and,  expecting  a  parcel  of 
books,  I  went  to  the  door. 

It  was  the  boy. 

My  presence  distinctly  perturbed  him.  He  had  walked 
up  with  assurance,  to  make  a  polite  inquiry  and  run  away 
without  obtaining  the  interview  demanded  by  his  mother. 
Assurance  is  easy,  when  you  know  nothing  can  happen. 
But  here  appeared  the  old  man  himself. 

The  old  man,  on  his  side,  did  not  for  one  instant  pre- 
tend to  be  pleased.  If  Paul  had  hesitated,  or  talked 
generalities,  or  reached  any  point  not  shaped  like  a  pitch- 
fork, the  interview  would  have  ended  before  beginning, 
and  no  relationship  between  us  would  have  existed. 
Although  positive  assertions  of  a  negative  order  are  dan- 
gerous as  well  as  hybrid  things,  I  am  sure  of  this;  because 
I  am  perfectly  aware  of  my  feelings  at  the  moment,  and 
Paul  has  since  confided  to  me  that  his  mother  had  resolved 
to  "see  me  herself"  if  I  proved  refractory. 

"I'm  to  give  you  back  hah*  your  money — mother  says 
I  must — and  you  are  not  going  to  have  double  pleurisy, 
are  you?" 

Such  were  his  three  phrases,  each  of  which  disconcerted 
me.  To  keep  the  money  or  return  it  might  be  compre- 
hensible— but  why  half?  And  what  business  had  any- 


18  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

body's  mother  to  interfere  in  the  financial  arrangements 
of  a  freeman  whose  years  were  more  than  mature?  Fi- 
nally, how  was  a  body  to  know  whether  or  not  he  might 
develop  double  pleurisy — and  why  double  pleurisy, 
anyhow? 

"You  have  disturbed  me  very  much,"  I  said,  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something. 

The  boy  dropped  his  head,  flushed,  and  looked  up  with 
the  bashful  smile: 

"I  shall  come  back.  On  my  way  from  school,  at  four. 
It  doesn't  matter." 

The  old  man  murmured  something  inarticulate. 

Now,  my  firm  intention  was  to  issue  orders  that  I  must 
not  be  disturbed  at  four  this  day  or  the  next,  nor  at  any 
other  hour  of  any  other  day,  by  a  boy  in  a  brown  cor- 
duroy blouse  and  blue  linen  knickers.  The  latter,  by 
the  way,  had  been  washed,  gathering  new  splendour. 
Silence  and  solitude  being  perfect,  thanks  to  Leonie's 
absence,  I  composed  such  a  phrase  as  could  not  be  mis- 
construed and  should  assure  immunity  for  ever.  My  one 
safeguard  against  intruders,  Leonie  was  an  Alsatian 
who  had  crossed  the  new  frontier  in  1871  and  taken  solemn 
oath  never  to  speak  to  another  German.  There  were 
moments  when  her  chatter  made  me  almost  envy  the 
Germans. 

She  lingered  beyond  her  custom.  I  could  not  wait 
indefinitely  on  the  threshold  nor  in  the  hall;  and  after  a 
while,  I  decided  to  take  up  my  work,  and  to  speak  as  she 
served  lunch.  But  my  orders,  from  much  inward  repeti- 
tion, became  concrete,  and  I  forgot  they  had  been  spoken 
to  none  save  myself. 

Four  o'clock  rang  from  the  church-tower,  which  meant 
we  were  within  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  of  the  time,  accord- 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  19 

ing  to  the  condition  of  the  clock's  works  and  of  the  sexton's 
rheumatism.  A  soft  knock  came  at  my  study  door,  which 
I  ignored.  If  Leonie  had  questions  to  ask,  she  knew 
better  than  to  dare  break  upon  me;  if  money  were  needed, 
she  knew  where  to  find  it  in  a  certain  drawer — always 
enough  to  meet  trifling  emergencies,  not  more.  I  did  not 
even  raise  my  eyes,  until  a  long  pause,  broken  by  rhyth- 
mic breathings  which  had  nothing  asthmatic  about  them, 
struck  me  as  peculiar. 

The  boy  stood  opposite  me  in  smiling,  apologetic 
self-confidence. 

By  arguing  a  positive  engagement  and  repeating  our 
short  colloquy  as  he  believed  it  to  have  occurred,  ending 
with  a  consent  which  ten  thousand  dragons  could  not  have 
torn  from  me,  he  had  inveigled  Leonie  into  allowing  him 
alone,  of  all  Verviller,  to  force  my  barriers. 

Ill 

HE  SAT  down  uninvited  on  the  edge  of  an  ottoman, 
murmuring,  "Very  well,  thank  you,"  in  answer  to  some 
fancied  question.  His  feet,  in  noiseless  white  canvas 
shoes — thank  Heaven  for  that! — looked  ill  at  ease  on 
the  thick  red  carpet,  and  his  gaze  wandered  among  pro- 
fusions of  books  and  papers. 

"Mother  says  I  am  to  give  you  back  hah*  the  money — 
and  thank  you  very  much,"  he  began. 

I  was  to  know  later  that  the  closing  phrase  had  been 
born  of  his  own  tactfulness. 

"Give  back  half  the  money?    Why?"  I  demanded. 

"Mother  says  so." 

"How  can  I  remember  what  I  gave  you?  Why  should 
I  retain  any  recollection  of  it?  Don't  you  know  I  have 
many  things  to  think  of?"  These  successive  questions 


20  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

were  fired  without  allowing  time  for  answers.  If  I 
paused  after  the  last,  it  was  simply  because  nothing 
further  occurred  to  me. 

The  boy,  serene  master  of  himself,  counted  out  two 
silver  pieces  and  five  large  coppers  on  the  edge  of  my  desk. 
He  could  reach  it  by  leaning  over,  without  getting  up. 

"Two  francs  fifty — it  was  what  mother  said,"  he  in- 
formed me.  "And  I  want  to  tell  you  about  my  double 
pleurisy,  if  you're  not  busy.  I  have  been  thinking  of 
what  you  said.  I  wasn't  on  cold  stone,  but  my  feet 
were." 

While  I  sat  dumb,  he  proceeded  with  his  story. 

Paul  was  preparing  for  his  first  communion,  at  the  time, 
he  informed  me.  Mother  had  said  he  must,  although 
father  had  taken  him  away  from  the  Brothers'  when  quite 
small. 

"Is  that  what  gave  you  pleurisy?"  I  demanded  in  a 
tone  frigid  enough  to  precipitate  acute  pneumonia. 

"Oh,  no!"  He  smiled  wonderingly.  "Did  you  think 
I  meant  that?  I  was  explaining  how  I  went  to  the  Com- 
munal school,  and  still  made  my  first  communion.  Mother 
said  I  should,  and  she  said  in  advance,  then,  that  I  should 
make  my  renewal  this  year — and  I  did!" 

He  paused  for  me  to  recover.  I  did  not  recover,  and  he 
proceeded. 

A  stitch  in  the  side  kept  him  in  the  house,  one  day; 
then  he  went  to  school  again.  There  was  to  be  a  cate- 
chism lesson;  hot  and  breathless,  with  his  head  aflame  and 
the  stitch  again  in  his  side,  he  reached  the  church,  and 
sat  on  a  chair  but  his  feet  were  on  cold  stone. 

I  suppose  he  expected  me  to  brag  or  moralise,  for  he 
watched  me  earnestly.  Not  disconcerted  by  my  aloof- 
ness, he  continued. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  21 

Presently  he  felt  unable  to  breathe,  and  a  strange 
dizziness  blurred  thought  and  movement.  With  the 
one  idea  of  reaching  his  mother,  he  got  home  somehow. 
She  could  not  think  of  any  appropriate  medicine,  so 
just  put  him  to  bed  and  told  him  to  get  a  good  night's 
sleep.  Next  morning  he  could  not  wake  up  for  a  while, 
but  finally  managed  to  dress  and  to  get  downstairs,  one 
step  at  a  time,  holding  the  rail  tightly  with  one  hand  and 
pressing  the  other  against  his  side,  where  the  stitch  was, 
to  keep  from  falling.  (That  was  how  he  expressed  it.) 
He  could  not  eat,  but  swallowed  some  black  coffee,  which 
did  him  good. 

His  mother  started  off  with  him  to  the  hospital,  afoot. 
They  had  gone  some  distance,  when  he  abruptly  keeled 
over  and  fell  down  in  a  dead  faint,  there  in  the  street. 
The  last  thing  he  remembered  was  telling  himself  he 
positively  must  put  his  foot  forward  once  more.  But 
what  was  there  to  do  when  everything  went  black  and 
vanished?  He  believed  he  raised  his  foot,  but  only  to 
step  into  the  blackness. 

Unwillingly,  I  had  been  reading  through  the  medium 
of  his  words  a  simple,  unquestioning  faith,  a  strain  of 
intuitive  courage. 

"I  could  help  you  to  put  your  room  in  order,  if  you 
wish,"  he  said  without  change  of  tone  or  manner.  "I 
help  mother." 

"In  order?    Why,  it  is  in  order!"  I  protested. 

Paul  smiled  wisely.  Perhaps  he  had  heard  his  mother 
protest  so,  when  her  work  was  yet  to  be  done. 

"If  you  would  like  me  to  come  two  or  three  times  a 
week " 

His  individual  idea  of  logic,  unembarrassed  by  accident 
or  circumstance,  rendered  him  formidable. 


22  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  write  a  book? "  I  demanded. 
"These  papers  are  needed  for  my  work." 

"Oh!  If  you  need  them,  I  suppose  you  can't  help  it," 
the  boy  said,  comfortingly.  "I  know  somebody  who 
makes  books.  His  son  is  in  my  class.  I  went  to  his 
shop,  once.  It's  not  like  yours. — He's  a  bookbinder. 
Perhaps  you  are  a  printer?" 

"I  write  books — or  I  am  going  to  write  one." 

"Everything  is  different,  isn't  it,  because  you  are  a 
stranger,"  he  said.  Having  spoken,  he  blushed  and  hung 
his  head.  Because  he  had  betrayed  himself,  I  supposed. 
At  all  events,  he  went  on  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 

A  stranger!  That  was  what  fascinated  him.  Here,  in 
Verviller,  lived  a  stranger,  not  from  another  village  or 
province  of  France,  but  from  across  the  seas. 

Paul  had  learned  in  his  geography  about  the  country 
to  which  this  stranger  belonged.  It  was  tropical,  and 
oranges  and  bananas  grew  there  wild,  so  a  boy  might 
pick  them  by  the  roadside;  and  they  were  bigger  and 
sweeter  than  any  to  be  bought  for  five  or  even  ten  cen- 
times apiece.  It  was  a  land  of  lakes  and  rivers  where  one 
might  bathe  at  any  season — lakes  as  big  as  a  whole 
departement,  and  rivers  many,  many  times  broader  and 
longer  than  the  Mareille.  But  a  boy  had  to  be  careful 
and  splash  as  he  bathed,  to  frighten  away  alligators. 
Paul  had  had  the  end  of  a  finger  nipped  by  a  crawfish, 
once,  so  he  had  some  idea  of  what  an  alligator  bite  meant. 
The  trees  in  the  very  streets  of  towns  as  large  as  Verviller 
were  alive  with  monkeys  and  parrots,  which  fought  and 
screeched  and  made  themselves  generally  delightful,  and 
sometimes  darted  down  to  knock  off  a  man's  hat  or  pull 
a  woman's  hair.  Besides,  all  the  people  were  not  white; 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  23 

some  were  black,  and  others  red,  and  they  dressed  pecu- 
liarly or  went  without  clothes,  and  they  had  among  them- 
selves battles  much  worse  than  monkey  and  parrot  fights. 

This,  and  more  of  the  same  kind,  came  from  the  geog- 
raphy book.  Easier  to  learn  than  lists  of  departements 
with  the  prefectures  and  sous-prefectures  and  chefs-lieux, 
and  their  populations  and  leading  industries  and  natural 
resources. 

Yet  it  had  seemed  very  remote,  until  he  heard  that  the 
old  man  who  sat  at  a  window  in  the  rue  du  Port  was  born 
in  that  country,  and  had  taken  a  huge  steamer  to  reach 
France,  and  had  travelled  far  across  the  ocean  and  not 
seen  land  for  a  week  or  more.  Paul  had  passed  through 
the  rue  du  Port,  and  had  noticed  the  old  man;  he  altered 
his  way,  so  as  to  pass  often.  School  unfortunately  lay 
in  the  opposite  direction;  but  it  was  as  near  a  road  as  any 
for  going  to  the  river.  Having  first  dwelt  in  a  wash-house 
composed  principally  of  water,  they  had  moved  to  a 
dwelling  so  dry  that  it  had  no  water  at  all.  They  paid 
a  neighbour  for  what  had  to  be  added  to  their  wine;  but 
the  river  was  the  source  for  household  uses,  and  Paul 
the  carrier. 

The  old  man  and  his  home  were  thenceforth  objects 
for  a  mystery  and  wonderment  only  the  more  alluring 
because  external  aspects  were  ordinary.  The  house  was 
of  stone  and  mortar,  two-storeyed,  with  a  door  and  win- 
dows, like  other  dwellings  of  the  rich;  the  old  man  was 
not  very  different  from  Frenchmen  or  other  people. 
But  Paul's  dreams,  which  had  wasted  in  fallow  lands 
since  his  grandfather  had  no  longer  been  there  to  quicken 
them,  throve  afresh.  Signs  were  powerless  to  deceive. 
Those  rooms,  seemingly  innocent,  must  be  filled  with 
extraordinary  objects;  their  owner  must  reveal  his  true 


24  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

self  in  unguarded  moments.  Each  time  Paul  passed, 
he  would  devise  secret,  reprehensible  plans  for  getting 
into  the  house  and  knowing  its  master.  Crime  and  lar- 
ceny were  alone  excluded  from  such  possibilities;  they 
were  not  right,  and  should  they  displease  the  old  man, 
then  all  chance  would  be  forfeited.  For  his  mad  hope 
was  that  this  stranger  might  talk  like  his  grandfather — 
and  tell  about  monkeys  and  parrots,  too. 

Acting  on  previous  thoughts,  the  first  day  Paul  saw  the 
old  man  watching  him,  he  smiled  as  to  a  friend.  The 
old  man  frowned  fiercely.  Frightened  at  what  he  had 
done,  Paul  planned  to  let  the  old  man  forget;  and  then, 
by  the  worst  of  luck,  they  met  on  the  tow-path,  and  a 
terribly  unintelligible  growl  greeted  him.  Prudence 
dictated  that  he  should  avoid  further  encounters  till 
many  weeks  had  gone  by.  But  somehow,  his  feet  con- 
tinued to  seek  the  street.  It  was  a  habit  they  had  fallen 
into,  and  he  vainly  promised  himself  to  stop  them  in 
time — next  time.  He  had  no  trouble  in  going  about  with 
lowered  head;  there  was  a  weight  to  it,  and  to  his  eyes: 
he  could  not  have  looked  up  to  the  window. 

Much  of  this  information  Paul  gave  me  only  in  the 
sequel;  on  his  first  visit,  he  rested  content  with  the  salient 
points,  which  sufficed  to  amaze  me,  with  retrospective 
remarks  about  the  beloved  grandfather  in  Arnan.  The 
greatest  of  my  surprises  was  the  revelation  of  the  Southern 
States  as  depicted  by  foreign  geographers.  Tropical  splen- 
dours, yes;  but  monkeys  and  parrots  in  the  streets  of  such  a 
city  as 1  choked  out  a  furious  correction,  which  elic- 
ited queries  about  other  races  than  the  white,  and  about 
the  size  of  oranges  and  bananas  picked  from  the  tree. 

"So  you  wanted  to  know  me  because  of  things  like 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  25 

these?"  I  asked,  having  difficulty  in  believing  his  words, 
or  himself,  or  my  existence,  or  anything  else. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  and  added:  "I  like  to  know  things, 
I  went  to  the  chdteau,  the  other  day.  We  children  of 
the  town  aren't  allowed  in.  But  when  the  Marquis 
is  away,  strangers  may  visit  it;  I  was  dressed,  and  slipped 
in  behind  some  ladies."  He  meant  well-dressed,  but  I 
quote  his  words. 

"I  saw  and  learned  a  great  deal,"  he  continued,  "and 
was  very  sad  for  a  while  after.  I  kept  saying  to  myself: 
'You  can't  ever  live  in  a  place  like  that!  You  must 
work  all  day  shut  up  in  an  office  like  father,  and  live  in 
three  rooms  that  used  to  be  a  wash-house ! '  We've  moved 
out  of  the  wash-house,  but  I  can't  help  remembering  it. 
That  night  I  cried  in  bed.  And  what  can  I  do?  There's 
only  school  to  help  me ;  and  that  will  make  me  what  father 
is.  But  thinking  of  you,  I  said  to  myself,  'There's  a 
gentleman  who  must  be  very  learned,  and  who  is  a  stranger 
and  must  have  all  sorts  of  ideas.  He  could  teach  me 
even  more  than  grandfather.'" 

Fantastic — phantasmagorical !  Who  might  he  be,  this 
child  who  had  so  commanded  my  thoughts,  from  the 
first  time  I  noticed  him;  who  now,  at  our  first  real  meeting, 
opened  his  heart  and  appealed  for  guidance  as  if  it  had 
been  his  right  to  ask  and  my  duty  to  give? 

I  reacted: 

"Tell  your  mother  I  say  the  money  is  for  you.  And 
now  leave  me,  I  must  write."  My  tone  was  kindly, 
while  admitting  of  no  question.  But  I  had  counted  with- 
out Paul. 

"Mother  said  I  must  make  you  keep  half."  Still 
resolute,  he  had  grown  paler.  "Perhaps  I  had  better 
tell  you  precisely  what  happened  at  home.  I  don't 


26  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

dare  take  the  money  back,  and  shouldn't  care  to  hide  it. 
I  told  her  you  had  paid  for  the  jug,  and  I  held  out  the 
money.  She  said  you  must  take  her  for  a  fool  and  me  for 
a  beggar.  Two  francs  and  a  half  would  pay  for  a  new  jug 
and  for  washing  my  clothes."  He  ducked,  ~  and  smiled 
bashfully:  "She  washed  the  knickers  herself,  and  the  jug 
cost  one  franc  ninety-five!" 

I  rose: 

"Very  well.  Have  it  as  you  wish.  There  is  one  remark 
I  would,  however,  make  to  you,  young  man,  since  you 
want  to  learn  from  me.  A  boy  ought  not  to  discuss  his 
mother  so  freely  with  strangers." 

Showing  no  shade  of  embarrassment,  and  as  if  sur- 
prised by  my  ignorance: 

"She's  not  my  mother!" 

"Well,  a  stepmother " 

"She's  not  my  stepmother.  She  and  father  just  live 
together."  This  came  with  perfect  calm.  "My  mother 
was  living,  so  father  couldn't  marry.  And  by  the  time 
she  died,  they  had  got  used  to  it.  I  don't  remember  my 
mother;  I  was  too  little.  But  I've  heard  grandfather 
talk  about  it." 

"Then  the  grandfather  you  love  so  much  is  your 
father's  father,"  I  said,  seizing  upon  any  remark  to  bridge 
a  disastrous  silence. 

"Oh,  no!  Mother's "  He  turned  on  me  wide, 

tragic  eyes  whose  grey  seemed  to  darken;  he  swayed 
slightly.  Desperately,  he  blurted  out:  "He  can't  be 
my  grandfather!" 

I  looked  on,  helpless  and  remorseful. 

For  some  moments  he  did  not  move. 

"I  shall  love  him  just  the  same,"  he  said.  "It  doesn't 
matter." 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  27 

Gravely  he  shook  my  hand;  yet  he  did  not  go  to  the 
door.  Fishing  deep  into  his  pocket,  he  brought  forth 
a  small  black  object. 

"A  note-book,"  he  explained.  "Almost  new;  I  have 
drawn  on  the  first  page,  you  can  tear  that  out.  If  you 
write  down  where  your  papers  are,  you  won't  have  to 
waste  time  looking  for  them."  He  put  it  on  the  table 
beside  the  money,  and  held  out  his  hand  again:  "Au 
revoir." 

After  a  glance  round  the  study  whose  confusion  was 
undeniable,  my  eyes  sought  the  boy's  modest  offering. 
It  was  many  years  since  any  one  had  thought  of  making 
me  a  gift. 

IV 

ON  FINE  summer  afternoons  I  would  often  drive  to  the 
foot  of  the  hill  called  Ripote,  and  leaving  my  trap  with 
its  driver  under  the  trees  where  the  road  lies  level,  would 
walk  up  a  fair  incline  to  heights  commanding  a  broad 
view.  Below  my  favourite  spot — a  moss-covered  rock 
in  a  natural  arbour — Verviller  and  its  part-slate,  part-tile 
roofs  rested  upon  the  shining  river  like  a  gorgeous  butter- 
fly a-glitter  on  a  silken  thread;  as  the  sunlight  danced, 
I  could  all  but  see  the  flutter  of  wings  about  to  take  flight 
and  draw  up  the  thread  that  had  held  them. 

The  day  was  more  radiant  than  usual,  my  thought 
more  at  peace  with  the  landscape,  when  steps  approached 
which  I  did  not  heed,  and  Paul's  voice  surprised  me: 

"You  don't  mind?"  After  an  instant,  he  added:  "I 
followed,  because  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you." 

Months  had  passed,  during  which  we  had  exchanged 
a  certain  number  of  smiles,  and  occasionally  a  few  words; 
but  he  had  not  broken  upon  my  solitude  nor  shown 


28          THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

obtrusive  tendencies.  And  it  was  because  I  would  not 
have  refused  him  that  I  had  respected  this  reserve,  as 
free  from  awkwardness  as  from  affectation.  A  wistful 
look  had  crept  into  his  eyes;  his  features  had  grown  more 
delicate,  his  cheeks  paler. 

"There  was  nothing  else  for  me  to  do,"  he  continued, 
sitting  near  me.  "For  a  long  time  I  wondered  where  the 
carriage  was  taking  you;  then  I  learned  how  you  left  it 
and  walked  up  the  hill;  and  once,  when  we  were  here,  I 
found  this."  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small,  neatly 
folded  piece  of  paper  on  which  a  few  notes  were  scribbled 
in  my  hand.  "I  knew  you  didn't  want  it,  because  you 
had  checked  off  each  item.  That's  what  you  did  with 
the  papers  to  be  thrown  away,  in  your  study." 

If  his  arrival  had  taken  me  by  surprise,  the  knowledge 
which  he  showed  of  my  methods  astonished  me.  Yet 
displeasure  overclouded  other  sentiments.  This  retreat 
was  lost. 

"So  you  and  your  mother  come  here?"  I  asked. 

"No.  We  did  come.  But  after  finding  the  paper, 
I  told  mother  there  were  snakes.  I  did  see  something 
very  like  a  snake,  only  it  was  a  stick.  She's  afraid,  now. 
I  knew  you  liked  to  be  alone.  You  don't  mind  my  being 
here  to-day,  though,  do  you — when  it's  necessary?" 

"There  was  a  time  when  you  considered  it  possible  to 
come  to  see  me,"  I  observed,  baffled  by  so  much  mystery. 

"Mother  had  told  me  to  go." 

His  reply  contained  an  element  of  unfrankness  new  to 
our  intercourse. 

"You  forget,  young  man,  that  you  admitted  schemes 
for  getting  into  my  house  and  seeing  if  I  wasn't  a  monkey 
trained  to  pick  oranges  in  trees." 

"I  don't  think  I  could  have  said  quite  that;  I  only 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  29 

wished  I  might,"  he  corrected  gravely.  He  did  not  deny 
the  charge  about  the  monkey.  "But  mother  said  not  to 
go  again." 

"And  why,  pray?  Did  she  fear  the  savage  might  eat 
you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Paul  answered.  Then,  with  a  lighten- 
ing of  the  eyes,  "No,  I  don't  think  it  was  that."  But 
he  did  not  seem  sure. 

He  had  been  watching  the  river.  With  an  abrupt 
transition,  his  eyes  still  in  the  distance,  he  said: 

"I'm  learning  to  fish.  By  going  with  father  and  seeing 
how  he  does  it.  That  way,  it's  easy  to  learn." 

"Was  that  what  you  came  to  tell  me?" 

"No."  His  tone  remained  very  casual.  "I  didn't 
get  my  certificate — the  government  certificate  for  prim- 
ary studies.  Mother  says  she's  going  to  send  me  to  a 
training-ship  for  cabin-boys.  Father  doesn't  say  anything. 
But  I  think  he  will  remember  I'm  his  son.  Or  do  you 
think  he  won't  care?  I  shall  run  away,  then." 

Visions  of  Paul  running  away  to  me,  scaling  the  garden 
wall  to  reach  the  back  of  the  house  while  his  mother 
battered  down  the  front  door,  roused  me.  I  became 
very  serious: 

"A  boy  who  fails  at  his  examination  doesn't  deserve  i 
anybody's  interest." 

"I  know,"  he  said  stolidly. 

"Have  you  any  excuse?" 

"They  say  I  am  stupid." 

The  tone  coveyed  no  regret  nor  mortification. 

"Perhaps  only  ignorant,"  I  suggested.  "How  would 
you  divide  fifteen  by  six?" 

For  a  moment  he  stared  wildly,  seeking  counsel  from 
the  distant  town,  from  the  near-by  trees;  twice  at  the 


30          THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

verge  of  surrender,  he  resolved  upon  another  effort.  His 
face  cleared,  his  eyes  shone: 

"How  I  should  divide  fifteen  by  six?  Why,  with  my 
arithmetic!" 

"If  you  were  to  go  to  school  another  year,  and  use  your 
wits,  you  would  pass,"  I  said. 

"No."  He  turned  a  strange  hue;  his  voice  was  scarcely 
a  breath:  "That  was  what  they  wanted.  But  it's  no  use. 
I  won't  work  like  my  father." 

"Aren't  you  rather  young  to  decide?  Discouragement 
is  natural  now,  but " 

Paul  had  become  so  very  pale,  his  lips  were  so  startlingly 
colourless  and  his  lashes  drooped  so  heavy  and  nerveless, 
that  I  stopped. 

"I  failed  on  purpose,"  he  whispered  with  a  tinge  of  de- 
spairing sullenness.  "If  they  make  me  go  back,  I  shall  fail 
on  purpose  once  more.  There's  nothing  else  for  me  to  do." 

"And  what  will  you  gain?" 

"I  shall  work,  but  not  like  him." 

"They  will  send  you  to  the  training-ship." 

His  head  hung  very  low,  but  his  voice  gained  strength; 

"I  would  rather  be  killed  than  kill  poor  people." 

"You  don't  mean " 

Then  the  story  came. 

Some  months  before,  his  grandfather  had  visited  them. 
Paul  still  loved  him  just  the  same,  and  didn't  betray 
the  fact  that  he  knew  of  their  lost  relationship.  But 
things  weren't  as  in  Arnan.  Grandfather,  who  had  been 
so  very  wise,  was  less  interesting,  somehow;  and  he  slept 
downstairs,  so  there  could  be  no  listening  at  night.  A 
pity,  wasn't  it?  For  so  many  things  would  have  been 
easier  to  understand. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  31 

That  visit  had  served  as  pretext  for  various  merry 
parties. 

"If  you  are  not  quick,  we  shall  leave  you,"  his  mother 
called  from  below,  one  day.  "Who  ever  saw  such  a  slow, 
lazy  boy?" 

By  "we"  she  meant  not  only  grandfather  but  also  the 
black  and  white  spaniel,  Diane.  Her  strongest  affection 
seemed  to  be  for  Diane.  Once  she  had  walked  eight 
miles  across  country  because  a  railway  ticket  had  been 
refused  the  dog.  "And  she  did  right,"  Paul  paid  the 
generous  tribute.  "Diane  is  like  a  child  and  cries  when 
left  at  home." 

From  his  room,  Paul  answered  half-heartedly :  "I'm 
coming."  Still  he  did  not  hurry.  His  mother  had  for- 
bidden him  to  wear  the  brown  corduroy  blouse  or  the 
blue  knickers.  He  must  put  on  his  good  clothes,  a  new 
suit  of  salt-peppery  drill  with  an  exceedingly  baggy 
coat  and  trousers  wrinkling  down  to  his  calves,  and  a 
cotton  shirt  though  he  had  no  clean  collar  and  must  go 
with  a  bone  stud  at  his  throat.  Also,  he  was  commanded 
to  renounce  white  canvas  shoes  for  the  sake  of  heavy 
boots.  His  mother  wished  him  to  be  "dressed."  He 
repeated  the  word,  not  realising  how  nice-looking,  how 
charming  he  was  in  the  brown  and  blue,  and  how  graceful 
were  his  movements  in  those  light  shoes;  not  suspecting 
that  he  became  a  workingman's  son,  with  only  his  delicate 
features  and  scrupulous  cleanliness  to  retrieve  him  from 
commonness,  when  clad  and  shod  according  to  his  mother's 
idea  of  fashion.  So  he  dressed  as  told  to  do;  but  it  went 
slowly. 

Only  a  dim  idea  of  what  awaited  him  had  been  hinted. 
He  had  often  heard  his  father  allude  to  such  things;  his 
mother,  when  she  listened,  would  say  with  indifference: 


32  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"People  ought  to  learn  to  manage!"  He  would  shudder, 
not  knowing  why.  By  going  to-day,  he  would  know; 
but  he  was  afraid. 

Diane  led  the  procession,  mother  and  grandfather 
coming  next.  Paul  followed  some  yards  behind,  tying 
boot-laces,  losing  his  hat,  or  inventing  other  means  for 
gaining  time  whenever  they  stopped  and  called  him. 
His  father,  to  maintain  administrative  dignity,  had 
gone  on  from  the  office,  alone. 

They  passed  through  the  town,  and  reached  the  out- 
skirts. Not  the  pleasant,  open-aired  suburb  overhanging 
the  river,  where  there  were  big,  beautiful  cottages  built 
of  brick  and  stone,  or  of  wood  painted  several  different 
hues,  with  jagged  roofs  and  windows  at  unexpected 
places.  A  dingy  suburb  off  towards  the  plain, — remote, 
forsaken,  sparsely  scattered. 

The  last  house  was  what  they  sought.  Beyond  lay  the 
little  settlement  of  outcasts  living  with  many  children  in 
damaged  railway  freight  vans  taken  off  their  wheels — 
one  van  for  each  family.  Where  the  clumsy  sliding  door 
was  drawn  back,  a  rough  wooden  partition  might  be  seen, 
making  a  two-roomed  "home";  round  it  ran  a  small 
space,  rubbish-filled,  perhaps  called  "garden."  The 
boys  and  girls  who  lived  there  were  careless  in  speech 
and  ways  and  person;  bare,  dirty  skin  showed  under  the 
rags,  their  hair  rambled  in  unexplored  thickets;  their  talk, 
when  perchance  overheard,  savoured  of  midnight  prowls. 

Though  Paul  had  never  seen,  or  at  all  events  noticed,  the 
house,  he  knew  its  occupant.  Everybody  called  her 
Mere  Rollinet,  and  said  she  was  mad.  Entirely  harmless, 
her  eccentricity  consisted  in  going  her  own  way,  muttering 
to  herself.  A  delusion  haunted  her,  that  her  only  son, 
killed  in  1870,  was  still  alive  and  would  come  back  at  what 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  33 

she  called  "the  end  of  the  war."  She  did  not  often  talk 
of  him;  perhaps  she  had  been  offended  by  joking  questions, 
or  else  was  slowly  forgetting.  The  idea  seemed  to  gain 
strength  when  she  saw  young  soldiers  pass,  each  autumn, 
after  their  conscription;  the  smooth  faces,  the  untrained 
gait,  the  ill-fitting  garments  swung  upon  strong  young 
bodies  and  long  loose  limbs,  would  rouse  her  intelligence 
as  if  a  familiar  voice  had  shouted  in  her  ear;  she  would 
start,  peer  into  the  ranks,  try  to  identify  the  boys  one  by 
one;  then  would  reel  back  with  a  low  wail,  before  rushing 
on  once  more,  muttering,  muttering  the  eternal  complaint 
which  none  ever  grasped — not  even  herself,  poor  soul. 

Mere  Rollinet's  trade  was  mattress-making;  she  could 
do  only  a  few  hours'  work  each  day,  going  from  house  to 
house.  Not  enough  to  live  on,  much  less  pay  rent  and 
taxes.  Yet  she  must  have  a  home  for  her  son.  The 
landlord  had  shown  mercy,  and  she  had  provided  for 
the  taxes.  Then  her  strength  failed  steadily,  and  she 
could  pay  nothing.  Charity  came  to  her  assistance;  but 
she  took  to  drink,  and  was  struck  off  the  rolls  of  the  de- 
serving poor. 

It  was  a  miserable  two-roomed  hut,  with  a  leaky  roof, 
an  unsound  door,  and  a  window  which  looked  as  if  it 
could  not  be  opened.  Voices  were  heard  within;  Mere 
Rollinet's,  always  in  the  same  whining  tone,  and  Paul's 
father's,  arguing.  Her  voice  stayed  in  one  place;  his 
increased  and  dwindled  as  he  came  and  went.  Some- 
times both  were  lost  in  a  noise  of  heavy,  rough-shod  steps. 

The  door  opened  wide.  A  large  bundle  of  clothes  flew 
out,  and  bounced  down  to  the  rickety  gate.  The  old 
woman,  her  congested  face  aflame,  her  scant  yellowed 
hair  a-bristle,  flew  after,  shrieking. 

Men  brought  the  furniture  into  the  street.     Two  broken 


34          THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

chairs.  A  trunk  battered  out  of  shape.  A  doorless 
armoire  with  carved  oaken  cornice.  Some  rusted  cooking 
utensils,  an  uncleaned  pot,  an  old  stove  with  a  pipe 
like  a  sieve.  A  few  unaccountable  objects,  including  a 
pair  of  mantel  ornaments. 

Perhaps  Mere  Rollinet  was  moving.  But  why  the 
crowd,  the  fuss,  the  curiosity?  Paul  had  watched  people 
move,  at  appropriate  seasons;  this  was  not  the  season, 
nor  yet  the  way. 

The  furniture  was  stacked  in  a  hand-cart  and  trundled 
off.  Mere  Rollinet  did  not  follow,  but  threw  herself 
across  the  bundle  of  clothes,  sobbing  softly,  trying  to 
speak  and  unable  to  utter  a  sound.  Paul's  father  came; 
he  and  the  crowd  moved  away.  Only  Paul  and  the  group 
of  coarse  boys  lingered. 

Whether  that  her  wild  grief  had  spent  itself,  or  that  the 
clearing  stage  brought  relief,  the  old  woman  began  to 
articulate  words  which  she  had  been  murmuring.  Paul 
heard  them  distinctly: 

"Cast  out  in  the  offal — jetee  dans  le  dechetl" 

His  mother,  with  the  crowd,  had  gone  to  an  open  space 
not  far  off;  Diane  insanely  leaped  and  barked  about. 
Mere  Rollinet  dragged  her  bundle  out  to  the  street,  put 
it  against  the  fence  of  her  last  home,  and  sat  there,  for- 
lornly propped.  One  of  the  coarse  boys  had  been  gnawing 
a  large,  hard  crust;  he  flung  it  on  her  knees,  crying: 

"There,  take  that,  la  mere  I" 

Her  furniture  was  being  sold.  Paul  knew  at  last  what 
it  all  meant.  A  seizure  for  taxes — part  of  the  day's  work 
for  his  father.  His  mother  bought  for  half  a  franc  the 
mantel  ornaments,  little  statues  looking  like  lead  which 
were  found  to  be  bronze.  Between  the  chatter  of  the 
seller,  the  tramping  of  men,  the  comments  of  women, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  35 

Mere  Rollinet's  wail  would  come,  rising  to  a  thin  screech 
and  falling  to  a  hoarse  moan: 

"Cast  out  in  the  offal — jetee  dans  le  dechet!" 

Paul  went  home,  and  got  his  books,  to  study  at  the 
kitchen  table.  His  eyes,  large  and  fixed,  glowed  as  by 
their  own  intense  light  while  the  rays  of  the  lamp  shone 
full  into  them. 

"Eh,  toil"  his  mother  scolded  shrilly.  "Will  you  mind 
your  business  and  learn  that  lesson?  Your  laziness  will 
yet  make  you  fail  at  the  examinations!" 

"If  you  don't  get  your  certificate  you  can't  enter  the 
government  service,"  his  father  admonished  contentedly. 

Paul  had  gone  so  far,  with  steadily  growing  but  still 
controlled  emotion,  not  attempting  to  do  more  than  sketch 
external  aspects  which  had  stamped  themselves  vividly, 
cruelly  on  his  mind.  As  he  paused  and  looked  up  at  me, 
he  seemed  to  sound  my  sentiments  before  continuing. 
His  face  was  very  white  and  drawn: 

"All  at  once,  I  knew  what  I  should  be  expected  to  do.  I 
knew  I  couldn't.  And  I'm  only  a  boy,  not  big  enough  to 
argue.  There  was  only  one  thing  for  me.  If  I  failed 
to  get  my  school  certificate,  they  couldn't — they  couldn't 
ever  make  me " 

His  head  fell  forward  on  his  knees,  and  he  broke  into  a 
passion  of  weeping. 

V 

I  DID  not  move  nor  speak.  Yet  perhaps  I  turned  my 
head  slightly  aside.  For  my  cheeks,  too,  were  moist. 

His  tears  did  not  last  long.  With  his  forehead  pressed 
against  the  arms  he  had  folded  across  his  upraised  knees, 
he  sat  quite  still.  What  I  saw  most  clearly  of  him  was 
the  desolate  curve  of  the  back  and  the  drooping  head 


36  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

with  its  velvet-like,  well-planted  hair,  and  the  neck, 
firm,  clean-cut,  resolute  in  the  midst  of  this  abandonment, 
a  column  of  faith  unshaken  by  the  storm.  I  don't  think 
that  the  possible  significance  of  a  neck  had  ever  until 
then  been  borne  in  upon  me.  His  testified  that  though 
the  heart  might  be  bruised  and  the  mind  bewildered,  a 
reserve  of  control  lay  between  the  two  and  would  say 
the  final  word. 

After  an  impassive  silence  he  sighed  deeply,  and  looked 
up — not  towards  me,  but  at  the  landscape.  I  spoke : 

"Paul,  I  can't  discuss  with  you  the  principle  of  this." 

"I  had  hoped  you  would,"  he  said,  very  low. 

"There  are  some  things  I  may  point  out,"  I  went  on 
evasively.  "Provided  you  will  answer  a  few  questions." 

"Anything.     You  know  how  to  understand." 

His  decision  had  been  taken  six  months  before,  I  learned. 
Then  he  had  to  seek  means  for  living  up  to  it.  Failure 
at  the  last  minute  would  have  meant  only  severe  punish- 
ment, because  he  would  have  had  no  excuse;  and  perhaps 
he  might  have  lacked  the  courage  to  fail  a  second  time. 
But  let  him  be  really  so  ignorant  that  he  was  acknowledged 
in  advance  to  stand  barely  a  chance,  and  everything 
would  seem  natural. 

At  home,  there  were  continual  scenes  about  his  slighted 
work.  Since  he  did  not  like  untruth,  he  could  only  seek 
protection  in  silence. 

"When  mother  has  taken  hold  of  an  idea,  she's  never 
the  first  to  let  go,"  he  commented. 

"If  she  had  had  a  son  of  her  own,  I  wonder  if  he  would 
have  inherited  the  trait?"  I  asked. 

The  ghost  of  the  wondering  smile  flashed  in  his  eyes 
and  parted  his  lips  for  a  second.  He  grew  solemn  again, 
but  the  atmosphere  was  relieved. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  37 

Adopting  a  policy  of  trifling,  he  had  played  on  any 
pretext.  It  came  naturally,  once  you  got  used  to  it,  he 
informed  me.  A  fly  on  the  window-pane  proved  an  ex- 
ceedingly interesting  object,  when  one  had  grammar  to 
learn. 

The  weekly  school  reports  reflected  his  attitude.  Con- 
duct always  "mediocre,"  work  never  more  than  "pass- 
able," attention  usually  "deplorable."  His  mother  her- 
self ended  by  admitting  it  to  be  hopeless;  though  she 
surprised  him  by  saying  to  a  neighbour  that  in  other 
respects  he  was  a  good  boy. 

Incredible  as  the  entire  situation  appeared,  his  tone 
and  manner,  added  to  recollections  of  my  previous  ex- 
perience with  him,  brought  conviction.  But  I  stopped 
him  with  a  question.  Looking  six  months  ahead  in  those 
schemes  to  forfeit  his  certificate 

Not  six  whole  months,  he  corrected  me.  He  had  not 
been  clever  enough  to  think  it  all  out  at  once.  For  some 
time  he  had  only  drifted,  seeing  the  end  and  not  knowing 
how  to  reach  it. 

Well,  say  several  months,  I  resumed.  Plotting  syste- 
matically, looking  ahead  towards  the  certificate  he  had 
resolved  not  to  get, — had  he  thought  of  seeing  beyond? 
Had  he  reflected  that  some  sort  of  an  education  was  needed 
for  any  career? 

Why — that  was  precisely  the  point!  Paul  replied, 
puzzled  by  my  denseness.  He  knew  the  projects  for 
him.  A  commercial  course  when  he  had  got  his  primary 
certificate;  then  an  office  position,  preferably  in  a  bank, 
while  waiting  to  enter  the  tax  service  with  his  father. 
That  would  not  be  living,  would  it?  He  wanted  to  do 
something,  no  matter  what;  to  do  something. 

Unwilling  to  answer,  I  bade  him  go  on. 


38  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Making  bicycles  was  doing  something;  they  were  useful. 
He  had  a  friend  who  could  help  him,  the  son  of  the  very 
M.  Lavenu  from  whom  I  got  my  carriage.  They  had 
been  to  school  together,  years  before,  at  the  Brothers'; 
and  had  separated,  and  forgotten  each  other,  and  met 
again  recently.  Paul  did  not  play  with  him.  Marcel 
Lavenu  was  a  bad  boy,  but  willing  to  help. 

I  confess  to  having  wondered  whether  a  great  principle 
had  as  much  to  do  with  Paul's  heroic  decision,  as  a  wish 
to  tinker  at  bicycles  with  the  rediscovered  friend  who  was 
a  "bad  boy"  but  "willing  to  help."  For  a  youth  who 
persistently  neglects  his  lessons,  and  cultivates  sym- 
pathies for  flies  on  window-panes,  and  admits  a  weakness 
for  rural  life,  the  prospect  of  riding  his  employer's  bicycles 
must  have  charms. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  he  asked. 

By  way  of  reply,  I  observed  that  he  could  never  aspire 
to  be  more  than  a  workman,  if  he  fulfilled  his  present 
intentions. 

This  startled  him.  Not  the  idea,  but  the  fact  I  should 
raise  it  as  an  objection.  He  was  quite  willing,  he  assured 
me.  A  workman  earned  his  own  money,  and  earned  it 
by  making  things.  Not  at  all  like  being  in  a  shop  or  an 
office.  The  difference  was  that  a  workman  made  things, 
and  didn't  just  handle  what  other  people  had  produced, 
clearing  a  penny  here  and  there. 

I  don't  know  where  he  got  that  notion  of  the  importance 
of  "making  things."  He  could  not  explain  it  to  me  then 
nor  later;  he  merely  kept  repeating  it  more  emphatically 
in  the  face  of  my  questions.  This  boy  of  thirteen  saw  into 
the  future  and  read  the  conflict  which  must  succeed 
clashes  of  capital  and  labour  or  of  class  and  mass:  the 
struggle  of  the  world's  creators  of  all  thoughts  and  all 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  39 

objects  whatsoever,  against  the  united  powers  of  the  unpro- 
ductive. 

"Father  is  better  than  a  workman,"  Paul  went  on. 
"I've  heard  him  tell  mother  he  had  relatives  in  Brittany, 
well-bred  people  who  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with 
him  because  of  her.  But  that  doesn't  keep  us  from  being 
what  we  are,  just  as  father's  education  only  taught  him 
to  drive  out  poor  people  from  their  homes.  If  they  would 

let  me  tell  them — if  they  would "  His  voice  broke; 

his  lashes  fell,  and  he  looked  quickly  away. 

"There's  just  the  possibility  they  might  listen  to  me; 
do  you  want  me  to  try?"  I  asked.  "But  there's  no  hurry 
about  it;  and  meanwhile  I'll  make  a  bargain  with  you. 
It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  begin  as  a  workman,  provided 
you  have  the  prospect  of  advancing.  Do  you  think  you 
can  do  that,  learning  to  speak  and  to  think  like  apprentices 
and  cyclists,  and  closing  all  the  chambers  of  your  mind 
except  those  you  need  for  manual  purposes?  I  promise 
to  help  you  in  your  own  choice  of  a  career,  if  you  will  prom- 
ise to  go  back  to  school  and  try  hard  for  the  certificate 
next  year.  Meanwhile,  would  you  like  to  come  and  help 
put  my  papers  in  order,  as  you  once  suggested?" 

Paul  sprang  up,  and  seized  my  hand  in  both  of  his. 

The  sun  set,  darting  fire-rays  through  swaying  trees 
which  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  scorching  touch.  In 
the  plain,  Verviller,  robbed  of  butterfly  glory,  brooded 
dull  like  a  grey  moth  impaled  upon  a  wire  of  shining  steel. 
Lights  that  glimmered  one  by  one,  and  formed  sudden 
tiny  clusters,  would  lend  for  an  instant  to  its  wings  a  faint 
semblance  of  stirring  in  the  evening  breeze.  But  the 
movement  was  short,  convulsed,  followed  by  the  stillness 
of  slow-creeping  death. 


40  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

For  more  than  an  hour  I  had  been  alone  on  the  hill- 
top, revolving  in  mind  the  bargain  made.  I  could  see 
Paul  through  the  gathering  dusk  as  if  he  had  yet  been 
beside  me — his  head  bowed  over  the  arms  he  had  crossed 
on  his  upraised  knees.  I  was  asking  myself  if  I  had  re- 
grets. And  I  thank  God  humbly  when  I  remember 
that  there  was  in  me  no  shadow  of  turning.  A  word 
had  ended  my  life  of  peaceful  isolation.  But  without  that 
word  I  should  have  been  for  myself  an  object  of  secret 
reproach. 

I  pass  over  the  scene  which  Leonie  made  me  for  staying 
out  so  late  and  risking  chills.  But  next  morning  our  talk 
was  to  the  purpose. 

"Leonie,"  I  said,  "the  work  here  must  be  getting  rather 
hard.  I  intend  to  get  somebody  to  help  you — in  my 
study." 

That  was  the  awkward  detail.  My  study!  Never  did 
I  allow  Leonie  to  have  her  own  way  there. 

Her  small,  parchment-hued,  much-wrinkled  face,  with 
its  silvery  hair  smooth  under  the  starched  and  frilled  cap, 
— the  whole  admirably  in  keeping  with  her  trim  little 
figure  and  grey  dress  and  spotless  apron, — gave  her  an 
appearance  of  mildness.  But  I  knew  how  to  read  her 
steady  eyes  and  her  square  jaw  which  often  grew  squarer. 

"You  may  think  you  need  help  rather  in  the  kitchen," 
I  ventured. 

"My  kitchen!"  she  snorted.  "I  should  throw  out 
of  doors,  by  the  two  shoulders,  any  wench  who  came  to 
disturb  me!  Help  elsewhere,  if  you  will — but  never  in 
my  kitchen.  It  would  do  more  good  for  the  front  steps 
than  for  your  study — they,  at  least,  can  be  kept  tidy." 

"Quite  so,"  I  hastily  assented.  "As  things  are  at 
present,  you  are  perfectly  right.  But  things  must  change, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  41 

Leonie.  I  have  developed  a  distaste  for  confusion.  My 
papers  must  be  sorted,  and  kept  in  order.  Therefore 
I  intend  to  take  a  little  assistant — a  sort  of  junior  secre- 
tary." 

She  merely  sniffed  and  grunted. 

"Is  there  anybody  you  could  suggest?  I  know  so  few 
people  in  Verviller."  The  hope  she  would  mention 
Paul  was  faint,  but  worth  trying;  and  she  would  be 
flattered. 

"So  long  as  it's  not  the  Clermont  boy,  it's  of  no  con- 
sequence," was  my  reward  from  Leonie. 

"Young  Clermont?  Just  the  thing,"  I  said.  "Find 
out  the  address,  can  you?" 

"Address?"  came  her  scornful  query.  "What  do  you 
want  with  that?  The  woman  has  brought  herself,  and 
him  with  her.  They  were  downstairs  when  I  came  up 
to  tell  you,  and  they  are  waiting  now,  unless  they  have 
made  off  with  my  pails  and  brooms." 

Really,  Leonie  was  too  rough.  Respect  ought  to  have 
suggested  that  my  silver  spoons  would  be  the  prey. 
But  there  was  no  changing  her. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me?"  I  demanded. 

"As  if  I  hadn't — first  thing  on  entering!  When  I 
came  into  the  room,  I  said — and  they  are  my  very  words — 
'The  boy  Clermont  and  his  mother,  whom  Monsieur  sent 
for,  are  downstairs!'  Monsieur  grows  more  forgetful 
each  day." 

"Show  them  up,"  I  ordered. 

For  a  wonder,  she  went  without  demur.  Doubtless 
she  suspected  that  I  should  call  her  back: 

"No!     I  shall  see  them  in  the  dining-room." 

Paul's  self-styled  mother  received  me  airily,  almost 
breezily : 


42  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"So  this  boy  had  been  worrying  you!  Not  a  bad  boy, 
if  he  weren't  so  hard-headed — and  clumsy.  I  scolded 
him  for  knocking  you  with  that  jug.  What  has  he  done 
this  time?  He  said  you  wanted  to  speak  to  me." 

The  boy  had  done  no  wrong,  I  assured  her.  I  needed 
his  help  during  the  holidays,  say  three  tunes  a  week,  and 
would  pay  him,  of  course. 

By  all  means,  she  said;  money  didn't  matter;  glad  to  be 
rid  of  him.  If  he  bothered  her  much  more,  she  would 
be  rid  of  him  entirely.  In  fact,  she  had  almost  made  up 
her  mind  to  send  him  to  the  Ecole  des  mousses 

Paul  stood  between  us  with  bowed  head.  There  was 
no  humiliation  about  his  pose;  only  patient  waiting  with 
an  inward  note  of  confidence,  a  pose  which  for  grace  as 
well  as  eloquence  might  have  inspired  a  classical  sculptor. 
She  shot  a  swift  glance  to  make  sure  his  eyes  were  lowered; 
and  then  winked  at  me.  Yes,  this  amazing  woman 
positively  winked  at  me  over  the  boy's  head,  there  in 
my  own  dining-room. 

"But  an  ignorant  lad  would  be  of  no  use  here,"  I  said. 
"Unless  it  is  agreed  that  he  goes  back  to  school  next  year, 
and  unless  he  promises  to  study  his  very  best  for  that 
certificate " 

"More  than  anybody  could  make  him  do,"  said  the 
woman.  "Only  yesterday  morning " 

Paul  looked  up: 

"I  promise  now." 

"There!  I  knew  I'd  get  it  out  of  him  sooner  or  later," 
she  went  on.  "I  always  have  my  way.  Do  you  know, 
when  I  was  a  girl,  and  not  ugly,  the  boys  used  to  tell  me, 
they  were  so  impudent 

"It's  understood,  then,"  I  cut  her  short.  "Good-day, 
Madame  Clermont.  Paul,  au  revoir." 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  43 

Often,  since,  I  have  wondered  if  this  was  the  true  cause 
of  some  of  the  events  which  followed. 

As  Paul  left  the  room,  he  sent  me  a  look  heavy  with 
doubt  and  with  pain.  He  was  thinking  that  the  chances 
were  she  would  not  again  allow  him  to  cross  my  threshold 
— and  he  was  pledged  to  study. 

VI 

THE  woman  swept  the  boy  away  and  hurried  him  home, 
not  speaking.  To  keep  beyond  her  reach  and  avert  ir- 
reparable words,  he  announced  that  water  was  needed — 
much  water.  For  a  couple  of  hours  he  trotted  to  the 
river-side  and  back,  until  every  jug,  jar,  and  tub  was 
filled,  and  some  twice  over,  when  they  could  be  emptied 
without  fear  of  detection.  At  last  she  fell  asleep  in  a 
chair. 

He  tiptoed  out  and  ran  to  the  tobacco-shop,  where  he 
fumbled  nervously  at  the  picture  post-card  table. 

"I  don't  find  what  I  want,"  he  felt  constrained  to  re- 
mark, seeing  much  attention  centred  upon  him.  As  a 
rule,  his  errands  were  for  his  father. 

"When  one  doesn't  want  anything  in  particular  it 
takes  more  than  a  day  to  find,"  came  the  caustic  reply. 
"But  if  you  did  want  something,  and  asked  for  it,  I 
could  give  satisfaction.  Mine  is  the  most  complete  col- 
lection in  town." 

"I  want  a  landscape,"  he  said  irresolutely.  "A  hilly 
landscape,  with  trees." 

"Here  are  views  of  the  Vosges.  If  you  don't  like  them, 
you  are  hard  to  please." 

"Couldn't — couldn't  it  be  something  nearer  to  Ver- 
viller?" 

"Not  unless  you  will  be  content  with  the  Ripote." 


44  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

An  unopened  package  was  laid  before  him.  His  heart 
beat  like  the  whir  of  a  bicycle  wheel.  But  he  controlled 
his  emotion,  and  said  carelessly: 

"That  might  do." 

With  trembling  fingers  he  took  the  cards  one  by  one. 
There!  The  very  view  he  wanted,  and  in  colours.  Artis- 
tic and  most  beautiful,  with  a  bright  blue  sky  and  brilliant 
green  trees  and  smudgy  brown  streaks  for  trunks  and  rocks 
and  other  things.  The  identical  spot  where  he  had  sat 
the  evening  before  could  be  guessed,  if  not  exactly  recog- 
nised. It  cost  ten  centimes,  and  the  stamp,  ten  more; 
his  entire  fortune  having  consisted  of  twenty-five  cen- 
times, he  went  out  with  only  one  sou  remaining  to  him  in 
all  the  world.  But  he  would  not  be  driven  to  run  away 
from  the  training-ship,  if  he  managed  this  affair  properly. 

Next,  he  must  write  the  card  at  home,  slip  out  to  the 
letter-box,  and  get  back  again  before  mother  woke.  The 
risk  would  have  been  slighter  if  he  had  gone  straight  to 
the  post-office  and  written  there.  But  nothing  so  delicate 
and  complicated  could  be  attempted  in  public. 

On  the  table  which  supported  his  mother's  arms  and 
head,  he  wrote: 

"Quant  viendre-je  vou  voire.     Votre  petite  ami,  Paul." 

The  penmanship  was  excellent,  but  the  spelling  excited 
his  particular  admiration.  Only  the  question  of  a  signa- 
ture worried  him.  He  had  neglected  to  leave  a  place  for  his 
family  name  in  front  of  the  Christian  name,  as  in  school 
lists  and  birth-certificates.  So  he  made  a  new  line 
"Clermont,  Paul."  Considerable  space  still  yawned  at 
the  bottom  of  the  card,  where  a  sketch  would  look  very 
well.  An  artistic  group  consisting  of  a  pen,  an  ink-pot, 
and  what  might  have  been  a  note-book,  presently  ma- 
terialised. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  45 

When  he  returned  the  second  time,  his  mother  had  not 
yet  roused.  Contentedly,  he  sat  far  back  with  eyes  turned 
to  the  window;  one  foot  caught  under  him,  the  other 
swinging  slowly,  easily;  his  fancies  in  that  mysterious 
house  where  oranges  and  bananas  ought  to  grow,  and 
monkeys  and  heathen  should  rage,  though  they  did  not. 

She  woke  at  last.  The  morning's  episode  seemed  for- 
gotten. Complaining  of  a  headache  attributed  to  sultry 
weather,  she  told  him  they  would  go  to  the  woods,  to 
get  some  air.  Incidentally,  that  air  was  never  admitted 
within  doors;  house-windows  must  be  kept  hermetically 
sealed  for  purposes  of  health.  If  questioned,  she  could 
only  answer  that  "fevers"  came  from  leaving  windows 
open,  especially  at  night.  She  might  have  been  surprised 
to  learn  that  her  ideas  were  traditions  handed  down  since 
mediaeval  days  when  neither  drains,  sewers,  garbage- 
cans,  nor  public  hygiene  existed;  and  that,  the  foulness 
of  streets  having  gradually  disappeared,  the  air  of  towns 
was  no  longer  necessarily  poisonous. 

The  fields  with  mellowing  crops  lay  on  either  hand  along 
the  road.  Reaching  the  trees  at  the  foot  of  the  steep 
incline,  her  fatigue  grew  so  great  that  she  settled  down 
on  some  fallen  leaves,  and  produced  her  knitting.  It 
looked  very  like  the  piece  she  had  in  Arnan,  and  not  much 
bigger;  it  had  been  gently  moth-eaten  at  one  corner. 

Paul  got  up  and  crept  to  the  road-side. 

A  cloud  of  dust  began  to  approach  from  town;  the 
carriage  came  on,  swept  past.  For  a  moment  or  two  he 
stood  rooted,  with  parted  lips.  Then  he  saw  a  slight  figure 
disentangle  itself  from  the  dust-cloud,  which  increased  to 
a  species  of  whirl.  Marcel  Lavenu  sprang  at  him. 

"What  are  you  doing,  waiting  there  like  a  head  on  a 
post?"  Marcel  demanded. 


46  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Hush — mother's  sleeping!"  Paul  warned. 

"So  is  my  grandmother.  Are  you  sleeping,  too? 
You  look  like  it — and  a  nightmare,  at  that!" 

"It's  I  who  shall  be  scolded,  if  you  wake  her." 

"Well,  then  you  scold  her!  Let's  catch  up  with  that 
old  rattle-trap,  and  steal  a  ride,  both  of  us.  Quick, 
we  can  do  it,  she's  slowed  down." 

"You  do,  if  you  wish."  Paul  hesitated,  and  asked: 
"Was  M.  Aubret  inside  with  you?" 

"No,  nor  inside  with  himself."  Marcel  rounded  his 
eyes  solemnly.  "Got  the  glanders,  to-day." 

"What?" 

"Cold  in  the  head,  you  sort  of  stupid!  Or  perhaps  only 
a  chill  in  his  toes.  Nobody  over  there  but  the  driver, 
who's  off  on  an  errand.  I  was  stealing  a  ride." 

"In  your  father's  carriage?" 

"No,  under  it.  I  can  get  inside  any  day,  that's  no 
fun.  But  I  wanted  to  steal  a  ride;  and  I  played  motor- 
car. It's  to-morrow  I  begin  work  at  the  bicycle-box. 
You  coming  with  me?  Did  you  get  your  certificate?  I 
did." 

Paul  smiled  the  bashful  smile.  If  Marcel  Lavenu  had 
passed,  then  anybody  could. 

"You  failed?"  Marcel  went  on.  "That's  what  you 
get  for  leaving  the  Brothers'  school. — Now,  for  the  last 
time,  are  you  coming?  She's  at  a  walk,  we  can  still  do  it. 
All  right,  go  back  to  sleep,  then — and  you'd  better  go 
back  to  Frere  Alexandre  next  winter!" 

With  which  he  piped  up  shrilly: 

"  Trois  petits  pretres 
Sortant  du  paradis, 
Avec   la   bouche   pleine 
Jusqu'd  demain    midi " 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  47 

"Oh,  don't  wake  mother!"  Paul  pleaded. 

Marcel  laughed,  made  a  face  like  an  overfed  squirrel, 
spat  more  or  less  a  distance  of  a  yard  and  two  inches, 
wiped  his  chin  on  his  sleeve,  and  raced  off  in  the  wake 
of  his  equipage,  singing  louder  than  before : 

"Clarinette,  clarinette, 
Mes  soldiers  ont  des  lunettes, 
Pomme,  poire,  abricot, 
II  y  en  a  dans  le  pot, 
Dans  la  cuiller  a  pot " 

He  whirled  abruptly,  stopped  with  one  foot  extended, 
looked  back,  put  his  hands  trumpet-fashion,  and  ended 
the  refrain  in  a  mad  yell  before  speeding  on  once  more : 

"Nu-mt-ro    Ze—Ro!" 

Rather  personal,  perhaps.  But  Marcel  was  unusual 
and  delightful.  Paul  envied  him  generously. 

So  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  An  answer  to  the 
card  would  come  or  not.  Perhaps  to-night,  perhaps  to- 
morrow morning.  One  way  or  the  other,  matters  would 
probably  be  sealed  when  his  father  reached  home.  If 
it  all  seemed  vague — if  mother  remembered  her  anger 

Taking  some  paper  and  a  pencil  from  his  pocket,  he 
sat  down  under  a  tree,  using  his  knee  as  desk,  and  prac- 
tised drawing  books  until  he  did  one  conspicuously 
unlike  either  a  box  or  a  house.  He  had  not  been  pleased 
with  the  note-book  sketched  on  the  post-card. 

His  father  came  home  very  tired  and  irritable.  Dinner 
was  eaten  in  dull  silence.  The  master  of  the  establish- 
ment took  out  his  pipe  and  pouch,  and  the  morning 
paper. 

"Paul!"  he  said. 


48  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

That  sufficed,  added  to  a  half-franc.  Within  five 
minutes,  Paul  was  running  in  again  with  eyes  a-sparkle 
from  the  briskness  of  his  gait  and  the  boldness  of  a  sudden 
determination.  He  would  broach  the  subject  himself. 

"I  say  he  shall  not  go,"  he  heard  his  mother  declare  in 
her  final  accent. 

Taking  the  little  square  blue  package  of  caporal  ordi- 
naire, Clermont  filled  his  pipe,  struck  a  match,  slowly 
puffed  at  the  flare,  and  smoked.  As  he  put  the  news- 
paper hi  position,  an  edge  knocked  his  glasses  crooked; 
he  read  on,  not  seeming  aware  of  this,  nor  of  the  miniature 
lamp  reflected  in  each  lens. 

One  thing,  at  least,  stood  out  clearly  in  the  midst  of 
Paul's  desolation.  If  he  had  to  run  away  now,  only  a 
solitary  sou  remained  to  him. 

A  distant  knocking  sounded  through  the  quiet  room. 
The  postman.  What  good  would  that  do?  Paul  got 
up  in  a  sort  of  trance,  made  for  the  window  by  mistake, 
collided  with  the  stove,  and  finally  reached  the  hall. 
At  one  end  were  the  stairs  leading  up  to  his  room,  and 
the  door  of  his  parents'  room;  at  the  other  was  the  street 
entrance.  He  turned  to  the  left,  as  if  going  to  bed,  when 
a  second  series  of  knocks  recalled  him. 

He  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  The  night  was  very 
dark. 

"Does  M.  Clermont  live  here?"  asked  the  voice  of  which 
he  had  been  thinking.  "Oh!  It's  Paul,  isn't  it?  Will 
you  tell  your  father  I  should  like  to  speak  to  him? — You 
had  better  ask." 

For  Paul  already  led  the  way.  He  felt  that  if  his  friend 
were  left  for  so  much  as  a  moment,  there  could  be  no  meet- 
ing again. 

"Father  is  at  home.    I  know  he  can  see  you,"  the  boy 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  49 

said.  "Come  in,  please.  I'm  forbidden  to  leave  the 
door  open  at  night." 

Oh,  Paul,  Paul !    And  yet,  this  was  an  assertion  of  fact. 

M.  Aubret  entered  the  kitchen,  announced  thus: 

"Father!     It's  the  gentleman!" 

The  mother  was  sitting  deep  down  in  a  chair,  her  plump 
arms  folded,  her  broad  shoulders  rounded,  her  head  bent 
forward  with  brow  lowering  under  the  shock  of  yellowish 
hair.  The  father,  a  frail,  debilitated,  thin-haired  man, 
had  eyes  which  were  blue  and  straightforward  when  he 
raised  them;  his  nose  and  chin  indicated  weakness. 
There  would  have  been  no  trace  of  commonness  in  all 
this,  had  he  not  let  his  moustache  trail  shaggily  over  his 
mouth.  Unquestionably,  as  his  son  had  intimated,  he 
was  politely  born;  of  his  own  docile  will  he  had  glided 
down  that  plane  which  gives  immunity  from  barriers. 

During  a  brief  pause,  M.  Aubret  observed  them,  and 
also  this  room  where  they  cooked,  ate,  and  lived,  in  work- 
man taste,  whereas  the  house  allowed  of  the  courtesies 
of  existence.  Its  most  conspicuous  aspect  was  tidiness. 
The  furniture  was  principally  of  the  showy,  dear-at-a- 
cheap-price  style;  but  a  tall,  old-fashioned  desk  with 
wrought  brass  mountings  had  been  placed  against  the 
wall,  far  from  dangerous  contact  with  the  stove's  heat. 

On  the  mantel  were  two  statuettes  of  XVIIIth  Century 
bronze;  those  Paul  had  mentioned  as  coming  from  the 
sale  of  old  Mere  Rollinet.  In  Paris,  they  would  have 
yielded  gold. 

The  woman  did  not  move.  The  man  took  his  pipe, 
put  it  on  the  newspaper,  removed  his  glasses,  laid  them 
carefully  to  one  side,  and  got  up. 

"I  have  made  an  offer  to  your  son,"  M.  Aubret  said. 
"Your  wife  has  probably  told  you  the  details  on  which 


50  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

we  agreed.  But  I  wished  for  your  confirmation,  as  the 
boy's  father." 

No  one  spoke.  M.  Aubret  caught  Paul's  eye,  and 
read  tragedy  there.  The  boy  was  colourless,  with  droop- 
ing lashes  and  quivering  lids;  his  lithe,  graceful  form  rested 
limply  against  the  door.  An  instant's  animation  came 
as  he  looked  up,  just  once;  then  he  fell  back  into  the 
desolate,  unresisting  pose. 

"I  also  wished  to  tell  you,"  M.  Aubret  resumed,  speak- 
ing more  slowly,  "that  I  shall  see  what  can  be  done  for 
him  at  school,  next  winter." 

The  atmosphere  was  less  tense,  but  no  acknowledgment 
came  in  words. 

"Three  times  a  week,  for  an  hour,  to  help  me  with  the 
papers  in  my  study;  I  shall  pay  five  francs  a  week," 
M.  Aubret  added.  "You  surely  cannot  complain  of 
such  terms?" 

Clermont's  amazement  showed  that  he  had  not  been 
enlightened  about  the  financial  arrangements : 

"Why,  Monsieur,  you  are  too  liberal!  Certainly,  the 
boy  is  at  your  orders." 

"I  shall  expect  you  to-morrow  at  three,  Paul,"  M. 
Aubret  said.  "Good-night." 

Paul  followed  him  out  in  silence,  closed  the  door  very 
quietly,  and  came  back  not  daring  to  breathe.  He  knew 
it  was  not  yet  finished.  But  his  mother's  explosion, 
begun  during  his  short  absence,  was  never  destined  to 
reach  its  end. 

"And  I  say  you  shall  hold  your  tongue!"  the  man 
roared,  bringing  his  fist  down  on  the  table  with  a  crash. 
The  dog  woke  up  and  growled;  a  dish  on  a  shelf  slipped 
flat  without  breaking.  "Paul,  you  shall  go  to  that  gentle- 
man's to-morrow.  And  now,  to  bed!"  He  waited  for 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  51 

the  boy  to  bolt  out  of  the  room.  Then  he  cried:  "It  is  my 
son,  name  of  a  name!" 

Wonderful!  Father  had  never  before  defied  mother — 
nor  defended  him  by  right  of  fatherhood. 

Late  into  the  night,  Paul  lay  wide  awake,  thinking. 
He  had  reached  that  age  of  ages  when  a  boy  begins  to 
discover  himself — and  fancies  he  has  discovered  the  world. 

VII 

No  QUESTION  as  to  what  he  should  do  there  occurred 
to  Paul.  Suffice  it  that  wonderful  things  must  happen. 

He  was  expected  to  sort  many  papers  of  different  sizes, 
but  looking  much  alike  unless  he  puzzled  over  the  first 
letter  of  a  word  written  at  the  top.  No  variety  about  this, 
especially  with  words  in  a  tongue  he  could  not  read. 
Still,  he  went  home  fairly  pleased. 

I  found  him  most  cheerfully,  most  delightfully  ineffi- 
cient. If  I  say  "delightfully,"  it  is  for  two  reasons.  First, 
there  is  a  certain  pleasure  about  any  definite  conclusion 
in  this  world  of  uncertainties  and  half -measures.  Secondly, 
the  charm  which  never  abandoned  him  increased  whenever 
he  blundered  hopelessly. 

His  punctuality,  at  least,  left  nothing  to  be  desired, 
the  first  week.  Then  he  arrived  half  an  hour  late,  ex- 
plaining that  his  mother  had  needed  him  for  an  errand.  In 
atonement,  he  came  an  hour  too  soon  for  the  subsequent 
appointment;  it  appeared  his  mother  would  need  him 
shortly  after  three.  By  way  of  irregularity,  this  was 
doing  rather  well.  But  he  soon  surpassed  it.  He  not 
only  missed  an  entire  afternoon,  but  turned  up  on  the 
morrow,  when  I  did  not  expect  him.  Punctually  at  what 
would  have  been  the  right  time,  he  entered  smiling, 
half-bashful,  and  entirely  confident. 


52  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"I  arranged  to  come  to-day,"  he  said.  "It  doesn't 
matter." 

I  own  to  having  been  disconcerted .  There  he  stood  in 
his  blue  knickers  and  brown  blouse  and  white  shoes  (the 
first  and  second  worn  by  polite  request,  and  the  last  by 
strict  injunction),  smiling  more  faintly  than  ever  before, 
his  head  with  the  velvety  sheen  ducked  very  low,  while 
he  darted  up  at  me  his  wide,  trusting  eyes.  If  he  had  said, 
once  again,  that  his  mother  had  needed  him,  I  should  have 
been  pacified.  But  to  have  the  opinion  volunteered 
that  it  "didn't  matter"  .  .  . 

My  words  would  possibly  not  have  been  so  harsh  as 
my  thought.  But  before  they  came,  recollection  checked 
me.  He  reserved  that  formula  for  things  very  grave, 
very  painful,  beyond  his  power  to  hinder  or  amend,  and 
against  which  he  must  steel  himself  as  best  he  might. 

"Did  your  mother  need  you?"  I  asked. 

He  looked  down. 

"She  said  I  was  to  come  to-day."  The  voice  was  so 
faint  it  barely  reached  me. 

So  that  was  it.  She  said  he  was  to  come  to-day!  He 
could  not  honestly  claim  that  she  had  needed  him.  She 
said  he  was  to  come  to-day. 

Useless  to  distress  the  boy  with  remonstrances.  That 
night,  I  wrote  to  his  father. 

Paul  disappeared  for  four  days,  but  eventually  turned  up, 
at  an  odd  moment,  serene  as  if  such  behaviour  were  normal. 
He  brought  me  a  little  bunch  of  flowers  gathered  in  the 
woods,  and  offered  no  explanations.  Nor  did  I  ask  for  any. 

Reading  in  his  eyes  more  than  in  his  words,  I  knew  that 
Paul  depended  on  me;  and  that  I  must  not  allow  my  util- 
ity to  diminish.  But  he  had  become  an  important  factor 
in  my  life.  Devoting  my  final  years  to  an  abstract  work, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  53 

possessing  no  human  ties  of  affection  and  having  to  go 
back  a  lifetime  before  I  found  personal  ground  for  memory, 
I  had  come  to  look  upon  Paul's  hours  with  me  as  eventful. 
I  knew  the  responsibility  I  had  assumed  towards  him; 
I  knew  that  so  long  as  he  proved  willing,  I  must  abide  by 
my  part  of  our  bargain;  but  I  knew  that  this  was  the  least 
potent  of  the  forces  driving  me.  Paul  had  made  his  way 
into  an  old  heart  that  had  thought  itself  dried  and  withered, 
all  but  crumbling  to  dust.  An  early  experience  in  that 
far-away  country,  which  he  and  I  loved  for  reasons  so 
different,  had  left  me  only  sadness  and  bitterness  for 
many  years;  and  when  these  passed,  the  vigour  of  my 
heart  went  with  them  so  completely  that  it  could  no 
longer  even  suffer.  Now,  I  had  been  roused  to  take 
personal  interest  in  this  strange,  neglected  waif  who  had 
grown  a  rare  flower  among  weeds,  unconscious  of  strength 
or  beauty  or  merit,  who  had  developed  just  because  de- 
velopment is  the  natural,  healthy  law. 

He  and  I  must  henceforth  come  together  more  completely, 
or  we  should  drift  apart.  By  degrees,  Paul's  work  with  me 
had  metamorphosed  into  my  talks  with  Paul — while  the 
stipend  paid  him  had  continued.  What  I  proposed  was  an 
honest,  radical  transformation.  I  was  to  help  him  learn 
how  to  study.  "  Since  it  will  increase  your  future  utility 
here,  it  will  be  worth  my  while  to  do  this  and  still  pay 
for  your  time,"  I  asserted.  He  blushed,  and  smiled. 

Though  having  less  conception  of  method  than  I  should 
have  thought  possible,  he  studied  with  a  will.  Habits 
of  carelessness  were  so  effectively  ingrained  that  he  could 
not  be  careful.  As  for  spelling,  he  still  strongly  reflected 
the  education  of  the  rustic  grandfather.  But  he  would 
never  get  distressed  nor  disheartened. 

Accidents  had  continued,  of  course.     He  would  still 


54  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

turn  up  at  wrong  hours  or  on  wrong  days,  as  commanded 
by  the  spurious  stepmother.  At  times  he  would  tramp 
in  with  his  horrible  hob-nailed  boots,  having  been  "unable 
to  find"  the  canvas  shoes;  the  ill-fitting,  common  pepper- 
and-salt  suit,  worn  with  a  collarless  shirt,  replaced  the 
blue  knickers  and  brown  corduroy  blouse.  My  protests 
being  vain,  I  did  not  insist — for  his  sake. 

His  father,  at  all  events,  seemed  to  appreciate  my  efforts 
and  to  note  good  results.  We  met  in  the  street;  Clermont 
said  he  wanted  to  thank  me  for  what  he  termed  his  son's 
regeneration. 

"The  boy  is  studying,"  he  said  impressively;  and  added  in 
a  contemplative  voice :  "  It's  odd,  he  never  will  do  anything 
for  us.  There's  certainly  something  wrong  about  that 
child." 

Was  there? 

Paul,  who  stood  beside  his  father,  shot  me  one  of  his 
olden  looks,  but  more  intense,  more  devoted.  That  look 
reassured  me — against  the  questions  already  arising  within 
me.  Transformations  are  so  rare,  unless  a  being  is  truer 
than  gold  and  clearer  than  crystal! 

Throughout  the  winter  and  early  spring,  we  worked 
happily  and  uneventfully,  with  sufficient  regularity; 
I  added  English  to  his  school  tasks.  The  annual  fair 
was  to  come,  filling  the  tree-shaded  Avenue  de  la  Republi- 
que  with  commotion  and  dust-storms,  and  the  shrieks 
of  whistles  and  steam  pianos.  I  thought  of  profiting  by 
my  martyrdom,  on  such  occasions,  to  reward  Paul's  zeal. 

"Find  out  what  afternoon  there  will  be  the  greatest 
possible  number  of  performances  in  all  the  side-shows, 
and  I  shall  take  you  to  everything,"  I  said.  "Only  let 
me  know,  as  there  is  one  day  I  cannot  be  free." 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  55 

Paul  came  back  with  sparkling  eyes  and  brilliant  red 
lips  parted  in  his  broadest  smile.  Thursday  afternoon, 
please ! 

"But  that  is  when  I  must  go  to  my  bank." 

A  gasp;  a  sudden  paleness  under  the  flush  in  his  cheeks. 
Then  a  deeper  flush  than  before.  With  unflinching  look, 
though  with  a  voice  which  could  not  remain  steady,  he 
said: 

"That's  all  right.     It  doesn't  matter." 

I  felt  an  unutterable  wretch. 

"All  things  considered,  I  would  rather  break  an  engage- 
ment than  a  promise,"  I  said.  "We  shall  go." 

There  was  nothing  he  could  say.  But  his  eyes  devoured 
me. 

"May  I  ask  for  one  thing?"  I  went  on.  "I  have  a 
weakness  for  your  brown  and  blue.  If  that  suit  still 
exists,  it  would  make  me  happy  to  see  you  wear  it." 

"Oh,  certainly!  Those  are  the  clothes  I  like  best.  I 
shall  tell  mother,"  he  declared  confidently. 

Now  that  so  much  has  been  made  clear,  it  is  needless 
to  describe  the  garb  in  which  he  presented  himself.  Some- 
times I  have  doubted  if  it  could  have  been  his.  It  looked 
borrowed  for  the  occasion  from  a  floor-scrubber.  But 
the  sight  of  his  happy  face  beside  me  throughout  the 
afternoon  sufficed  for  recompense. 

The  next  day,  he  was  to  come  for  a  lesson.  When  he 
appeared  once  more  in  that  unspeakable  suit,  he  was  not 
my  guest,  and  no  promise  bound  me.  Great  as  my  regard 
for  him  might  be,  and  much  as  I  had  already  passed  over, 
I  knew  that  if  his  stepmother  wished  to  find  how  far  I 
would  bear  provocation,  I  must  draw  a  line.  I  told  him 
to  go  home  and  change  his  clothes.  He  went — and  there 
was  no  return. 


56  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

A  week  later  I  saw  Paul,  in  the  street,  with  his  school- 
books.  He  glided  swiftly  round  a  corner,  hoping  I 
should  not  see  him. 

If  ray  heart  grew  heavy,  there  was  yet  a  strain  of  re- 
joicing in  my  household.  Leonie  had  attributed  to  this 
connection  every  domestic  mishap,  from  an  attack  of 
my  gout  to  difficulties  in  keeping  her  copper  saucepans 
bright. 

"That  woman  is  a  witch,"  she  said.  "If  the  boy  had 
got  a  firm  footing  in  the  house,  terrible  things  would  have 
followed.  I  know,  from  my  own  experience  in  Alsace, 
where  Germans  swarmed  in — and  she  is  surely  a  German, 
for  all  the  French  ways  she  tries  to  imitate,  and  can't. 
She  is  capable  of  working  the  wizards  on  Monsieur. 
Already  she  has  vowed  vengeance  against  him.  It 
seems  Monsieur  tried  to  interfere  with  the  way  she  dressed 
her  husband's  son.  And  Monsieur  was  working  the  boy 
to  death,  giving  him  drudgery  beyond  his  years,  and 
paying  only  five  francs  a  week  for  services  which  a  man 
would  have  demanded  twenty  francs  for.  So  she  says. 
Evil  will  yet  come  of  it.  I  shall  put  the  scissors  to  the 
window,  so  none  of  these  people  may  ever  cross  the  thresh- 
old again — rusty  scissors  with  one  point  broken  acci- 
dentally; a  sure  protection,  if  one  knows  how  to  do  it. 
And  she  has  also  turned  the  boy's  father  against  Monsieur, 
this  time.  An  ugly  story  is  told  in  town,  about  the  way 
Monsieur  tried  to  be  gallant  with  her  when  she  brought 
the  boy  here  first.  If  the  man  were  as  violent  as  he  is 
jealous — 

"That  will  do,  Leonie.  Go  to  your  work!"  I  exploded 
with  a  fury  which  must  have  been  interpreted  as  proof  of 
guilt. 

Again  I  saw  Paul  turn  away  to  avoid  me;  but  if  my 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  57 

heart  was  not  gay,  it  was  at  least  less  heavy.  Going  to  my 
little  garden  when  I  reached  home,  my  attention  was  drawn 
to  Leonie's  scissors  fastened  to  the  blinds.  They  caused 
me  a  peculiar  twinge — a  prophecy  and  a  reminder. 

During  the  half-year  which  followed,  I  met  Paul 
once,  as  a  bicycle  apprentice,  behaving  in  a  very  rowdy 
way,  with  a  cigarette  stump  between  his  lips,  calling  out 
impudent  remarks  to  passers-by  and  singing  snatches  from 
a  not  very  nice  refrain.  On  his  swaggering  course  he 
came  so  near  to  me  that  he  roughly  brushed  me  with  his 
elbow — purposely,  but  having  no  idea  whom  he  assaulted. 
He  felt  very  clever  and  devilish,  doing  that  sort  of  thing, 
he  has  since  confessed. 

At  the  beginning  of  summer,  Paul  hurled  at  his  parents 
the  bomb  of  independence,  declaring  that  in  virtue  of  his 
fourteen  years  he  would  study  no  longer,  and  intended 
to  enter  a  bicycle  shop.  He  was  met  by  a  counter-blast, 
but  won  his  position  thanks  to  an  attitude  of  quiet, 
dogged,  unargumentative  determination.  The  prospect 
of  a  second  failure  at  school  had  been  too  much  for  him; 
though  his  decision  about  his  future  remained  unaltered, 
fourteen  years  bring  their  degree  of  pride  among  other 
burdens.  Only  the  promise  made  to  me  had  held  him 
back  for  so  long;  but  he  had  finally  decided  that,  my  part 
of  the  bargain  no  longer  being  held,  he  might  be  freed 
from  his.  And,  while  becoming  an  apprentice  at  Del- 
ligny's,  he  was  not  ignorant,  as  when  he  and  I  had  dis- 
cussed this  problem. 

The  boys  worked  very  much  to  themselves,  in  a  large 
shed  next  to  the  shop;  and  Marcel  Lavenu  was  the  ac- 
knowledged leader.  Paul  retained  the  same  affection 
for  this  friend  of  his  childhood,  while  perhaps  admiring 


58  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

him  less.  Marcel  had  a  way  of  demanding  attention 
at  any  price  and  of  slipping  readily  through  difficulties, 
which  could  not  find  sympathy  in  a  nature  such  as  Paul's. 
Yet  no  action  of  Marcel's  ever  seemed  grave  or  failed 
to  be  amusing;  and  his  position  as  introducer  and  pro- 
tector made  opposition  impossible.  Paul  had  no  desire 
to  form  an  opposition;  and  presently  found  he  could  adapt 
himself  to  the  ways  about  him.  He  did  not  care  to  dwell 
on  these  experiences,  when  looking  back  on  that  period; 
though  to  his  credit  be  it  said  that  he  told  me  the  whole 
story,  with  a  frankness  which  was  a  solid  guarantee  for 
the  future. 

The  end  came  when  disaster  overtook  the  junior  per- 
sonnel of  the  establishment.  Some  things  had  been 
stolen.  Inquiries  revealed  deep  and  systematic  corrup- 
tion. The  chief  culprit,  one  Andre  Manadan,  a  puny, 
rheumatic,  greenish-faced  little  apprentice  with  weak 
knees  and  shifty  eyes,  was  ignominiously  ejected  at  a 
moment's  notice,  together  with  others  gravely  compro- 
mised. But  M.  Delligny,  tall,  lean,  with  a  chicken-neck 
and  a  depressed  stomach,  the  sort  of  man  who  is  for  ever 
apprehending  ruin  and  often  attains  it  in  consequence, 
did  not  stop  there.  Marcel  Lavenu,  as  a  senior  appren- 
tice enjoying  much  prestige  and  signal  privileges,  and 
furthermore  a  clever,  experienced  little  workman,  was 
spared  because  he  would  be  useful  breaking  in  new  boys. 
Paul,  who  had  enjoyed  himself  too  much  to  learn  the 
trade  he  claimed,  was  dismissed  on  general  principles  as  a 
superfluity  who  could  serve  only  to  hand  down  heinous 
practices, 

Before  going  home,  Paul  walked  on  the  river-bank. 
Matters  would  be  less  distressing  if  he  formed  some  pro- 
ject. The  training-ship  had  ceased  to  give  him  concern; 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  59 

the  forfeited  certificate  delivered  him  from  a  tax  office. 
But  the  next  choice  he  made  must  be  his  trade  for  life. 
And  his  parents  would  be  capable,  after  his  present  fiasco, 
of  articling  him  to  a  grocery  or  a  wine  shop.  Had  he  not 
been  afraid,  he  would  have  ventured  to  call  on  M.  Aubret. 

Well,  and  why  not?  Paul  asked  himself  abruptly. 
No  treatment  could  be  more  violent  or  unjust  than  what 
he  had  got  from  Delligny. 

So  it  came  about  that  the  boy  sat  in  my  study  once  more, 
narrating  his  story  and  asking  for  counsel. 

While  listening,  I  noted  his  language.  He  had  the 
same  ready  flow  of  words,  but  mixed  with  vulgar  expres- 
sions and  tripped  with  grammatical  blunders. 

As  I  sought  indications  not  only  in  his  present  talk  but 
in  memories  of  our  previous  intercourse,  what  rose  most 
compellingly  before  me  was  that  taste  of  his  for  drawing. 
Not  that  I  dreamed  of  making  an  artist  of  him. 

I  thought  of  French  excellence  in  the  decorative  and 
industrial  arts;  an  esteemed  profession  where  he  would 
meet  with  better  contacts  than  in  ordinary  trades.  Con- 
sidering his  lack  of  example,  his  drawings  were  creditable. 
I  had  noticed  with  particular  pleasure  that  discouragement 
did  not  follow  when  a  thing  had  been  badly  rendered. 
Thus  I  have  seen  him  do  over  a  score  of  times  some  sketch 
which  perhaps  had  not  been  worth  beginning,  but  was 
worth  doing,  once  begun.  Much  of  his  leisure  had  been 
given  to  that  sort  of  thing.  Besides  which,  he  observed 
furniture  and  objects  of  art;  his  descriptions  were  always 
accurate,  and  he  had  guessed  that  Mere  Rollinet's  mantel 
ornaments  were  of  interest. 

Various  trades  passed  in  review  before  us.  There  came 
a  hesitation.  I  waited. 

Locksmith,   he   suggested.     Useful,    and   always    sure 


60 

of  work  to  do.  Not  overcrowded,  like  electricity  and 
automobiles.  Sometimes  there  was  designing  to  be 
done,  too;  and  art-forging.  He  knew  one  locksmith 
who  had  very  handsome  ornamental  hinges  in  his  windows, 
and  keys  with  heads  of  gilt  bronze  open-work.  Paul's 
sparkling  eyes  showed  that  he  had  found  the  solution 
simply  by  being  allowed  to  express  himself.  I  confirmed 
the  soundness  of  his  judgment.  What  I  did  not  tell  him 
was  that  I  planned  to  send  him  to  a  designing  school 
if  his  ability  were  proved. 

I  could  not  resist  an  inquiry  as  to  whether  his  mother 
knew  of  this  visit. 

No,  but  he  would  tell  her,  he  said.  With  a  bashful  smile 
he  acknowledged  her  anger  against  me.  That  day, 
long  ago,  had  been  unfortunate.  When  he  got  home  with 
my  message  about  the  clothes,  she  was  issuing  from  a 
collision  with  the  landlord  about  an  increased  rental 
because  running  water  had  been  supplied  her.  Paul, 
breaking  in  and  so  engrossed  with  his  own  preoccupations 
that  he  had  not  read  the  signal  of  her  cheeks,  reaped 
the  cyclone. 

"  But  I  didn't  worry  much,"  he  declared  philosophically. 
"I  knew  I  should  come  back  some  time." 

I  wondered  if  a  conviction  of  the  kind  did  not  lie  at  the 
base  of  most  resignation. 

He  left  me  with  a  nod,  after  settling  his  cap  on  one  side  of 
his  head.  Grease-stains  covered  the  apprentice-suit  of 
blue  drill;  his  hands  were  rough  and  dark,  his  face  was 
dirty ;  but  the  step  still  had  buoyancy,  the  voice  cheeriness, 
and  his  neck  and  wrists  were  clean. 

As  he  looked  back  at  me  with  the  full,  wondering  smile,  I 
felt  that  while  Paul  had  reached  ugly  shallows,  he  had 
barely  touched  their  edge. 


PART  TWO 
FAITH 


ARISTIDE  BADAJEZE,  the  locksmith,  took  himself  very 
seriously  as  an  artist  and  public  benefactor. 

"Without  my  art  to  secure  your  doors  and  windows, 
how  could  you  keep  the  trinkets  made  by  other  people?" 
he  would  ask. 

This  importance  of  the  thief  in  society  was  much  insisted 
upon,  in  his  talk,  as  demonstrating  his  own  utility.  So, 
when  friends  spoke  of  a  golden  future  awaiting  the  world 
from  the  growth  of  Socialism,  and  the  approach  of  human 
brotherhood,  he  would  exclaim: 

"Disarmament?  Peace  among  nations?  Rid  me  first 
of  robbers  and  cut-throats  in  towns,  so  that  I  need  no 
locks  to  my  house  and  no  gendarme  within  call!  When 
I  leave  my  forge  because  not  a  citizen  of  Europe  needs  my 
help  in  its  most  practical  form,  then  I  may  trust  a  country 
to  be  safe  without  an  army!" 

When  he  made  these  remarks  to  dampen  the  interna- 
tional love  whose  lulling  spirit  surrounded  him,  Aristide 
Badajeze  was  pronounced  cynical,  original,  impossible. 
Sometimes  men  of  his  trade,  who  lacked  his  skill,  even 
went  so  far  as  to  pronounce  him  a  bad  brother. 

Another  of  his  eccentricities  was  a  mania  for  air.  The 
two  broad  windows  where  he  exhibited  his  finest  wares 
were  at  the  front,  in  the  rue  de  la  Chaise  Doree,  with  the 
entrance  between  them.  But  the  whole  back  of  the  shop, 
in  the  Place  du  Vieux  Marche,  disappeared  when  the 
shutters  were  taken  down.  M.  Badajeze  would  stand 

63 


64  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

there  working  in  his  trousers  and  shirt,  collarless  and  with 
sleeves  rolled  up,  on  cold  sunless  days  when  other  inhabit- 
ants of  Verviller  shivered  within  tight  doors  and  windows. 
A  number  of  promising  apprentices  had  been  removed 
from  his  influence,  because  anxious  parents  could  not 
allow  their  sons  to  contract  tuberculosis  for  his  amusement. 
Eccentrically,  he  denied  the  charge,  asserting  that  fresh 
air,  even  when  cold,  was  healthier  than  musty,  never- 
changed  atmospheres,  though  warm.  Paul  felt  chilly 
at  first,  but  liked  it,  and  learned  that  the  harder  he  worked 
the  warmer  he  kept.  Soon  he  no  longer  needed  extra 
layers  of  clothes  slipped  under  his  drill  jacket.  Between 
the  invigorating  effects  of  clean  air  in  his  lungs  all  day, 
and  hard  work  which  genuinely  appealed  to  him,  he  soon 
developed  pink  cheeks  and  a  fine  glow  unknown  to  him 
since  days  in  Arnan. 

Paul's  time  was  spent  mostly  over  a  forge  or  a  vice, 
with  a  hammer  or  pincers  or  files.  If  the  anvil  did  not 
ring  merrily  enough,  or  the  mound  of  metal-dust  grow 
rapidly  enough,  M.  Badajeze  would  threaten  to  "give 
news  of  himself."  That  was  his  own  expression.  What 
happened  when  M.  Badajeze  was  driven  to  such  extremes, 
nobody  knew.  It  must  have  been  terrific,  for  he  darted 
his  eyes  out  at  the  mere  suggestion.  They  did  not  pre- 
cisely pop  from  his  head,  but  appeared  to  do  so.  He 
would  twirl  them  in  a  rapid  circle,  and  would  violently 
round  his  eyelids,  looking  very  stern  throughout  the  per- 
formance and  for  a  moment  afterwards.  The  result 
was  startling,  set  in  a  sallow  face  relieved  only  by  a  yellow 
moustache  mixed  with  grey,  and  surmounted  by  a  head  so 
smoothly  bald  that  he  said  of  himself,  "I  wear  my  hair 
en  brosse — the  back  of  the  brush,  you  know!" 

Strange  devices  of  all  sorts  lay  about  the  shop:  huge 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  65 

old-fashioned  hinges  that  covered  half  a  wardrobe  door; 
locks  and  keys  of  another  century,  full  of  complicated 
springs  and  rich  with  wrought  metal;  decorative  designs 
of  hammered  steel  or  carved  brass,  for  purposes  Paul 
could  not  guess.  He  would  run  his  fingers  lovingly 
over  the  surfaces,  the  turns  and  edges;  he  would  study 
the  patterns,  and  try  to  draw  them  from  memory  at 
night.  The  luxuries  of  the  trade  were  not  yet  allowed 
him;  even  his  admiration  had  to  be  reserved  for  spare  mo- 
ments, which  rarely  occurred  in  the  shop.  M.  Badajeze 
held  that  an  apprentice  should  learn  to  forge  and  cut  and 
file  and  solder  pieces  of  simple  form,  before  meddling 
with  questions  into  which  art  entered.  He  would  illus- 
trate this  by  a  homely  truth  with  an  unexpected  example : 

"A  baby  must  learn  to  crawl  before  it  can  walk.  My 
daughter  tried  to  begin  by  walking — just  stood  up  and 
took  two  steps,  one  day.  Well,  I  spanked  her,  tiny 
mite  that  she  was,  and  taught  her  to  crawl.  It  gave  me 
trouble,  because  I  myself  had  to  get  into  practice  for 
crawling,  once  more.  But  I  would  have  no  ill- trained, 
inefficient  child  bearing  my  name.  And  behold  what 
Mademoiselle  Badajeze  is  now!" 

The  house  was  next  to  the  workshop;  or  rather,  the 
shop  had  been  added  to  an  outer  wall.  Through  a 
window  in  his  dining-room  or  else  through  a  glazed  door 
raised  three  steps  above  the  ground,  M.  Badajeze  could 
watch  the  apprentices  when  he  withdrew  for  a  short  rest. 
And  when  perchance  he  dozed  over  his  folded  hands, 
another  pair  of  eyes  watched  for  him.  Those  other  eyes 
never  looked  unkindly  nor  reported  unfairly.  But  they 
could  show  concern  when  anything  irregular  happened. 
Sometimes  apprentices  were  tempted  to  abuse.  As  for 
Paul,  he  would  have  taken  a  hammer  and  smashed  the 


66          THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

handsomest  lock  in  the  artistic  collection,  rather  than  be 
looked  at  again  as  he  had  been  once,  when  he  used  a 
bicycle-shop  oath  after  a  boy  had  odiously  interfered  with 
him. 

Mademoiselle  Odette  Badajeze  was  quite  a  young  lady; 
seventeen  years  old,  and  not  destined  for  any  trade.  With 
her  figure,  she  would  have  made  a  splendid  dress-maker, 
Paul  gravely  informed  me.  That  she  was  a  lady,  there 
could  be  no  doubt.  A  woman  came  to  do  her  cooking 
and  washing  and  rough  house-work;  she  wore  marvellous 
gowns,  and  gloves,  too,  on  Sundays  and  feast  days. 
Ordinarily  she  was  clad  in  neat,  simple  blue,  with  a  little 
white  apron  frilled  all  round  the  edge.  Her  father  said 
she  must  wear  an  apron  at  certain  hours,  and  that  frill 
was  her  joke. 

I  urged  Paul  to  give  me  an  idea  of  her  appearance :  for  I 
never  saw  this  remarkable  young  lady. 

"She  is "  he  would  begin,  and  stop.  "I  wish  you 

could  see  her,"  he  would  add  presently.  And  his  last 
word  was  always,  "She's  not  like  anybody  else.  I  don't 
know  how  to  describe  her." 

So  I  was  fain  to  be  content  with  phrases  he  let  fall 
while  discussing,  on  any  chance  occasion,  her  words  or 
actions.  I  learned  she  had  "very  beautiful  hair,"  and 
that  it  was  "all  wavy  and  brown,  with  some  yellow  in  it 
— like  bronze."  Her  voice  he  mentioned  several  times 
as  "sweet,"  but  more  often  as  "warm";  he  said  it  "did 
one  good  to  hear"  even  when  the  words  did  not  carry. 
He  must  have  meant  when  both  the  door  and  the  window 
were  closed.  From  all  I  could  gather,  her  features  were 
worthy  of  such  charms;  but  he  mentioned  only  her  chin — 
she  had  a  way  of  putting  her  head  on  one  side  with  the 
chin  held  up  as  she  smiled  at  her  father  or  Robert  Lavenu, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  67 

and  her  eyes  would  grow  big,  very  big  and  even  fuller 
of  light  than  usual. 

The  thought  of  Robert  Lavenu,  Marcel's  soldier  brother, 
would  invariably  repress  his  confidences.  I  believe  he 
was  jealous.  From  having  been  indifferent  to  questions 
of  warfare  as  expounded  by  M.  Badajeze,  Paul  came  to 
be  a  sort  of  incipient  anti-militarist.  He  remarked 
scathingly : 

"Robert  Lavenu  pretends  to  have  been  so  clever  and 
patriotic,  enlisting  before  his  time.  But  it's  because  he 
did  it  that  he  became  a  dragoon  and  was  able  to  stay  in 
the  neighbourhood,  instead  of  being  sent  to  the  other  end 
of  France.  And  now  you  know  how  he  manages  to  come 
home  so  often." 

But  it  was  not  his  visits  to  his  home  that  Paul  resented. 

We  had  reached  that  spring  during  which  so  many 
"mistakes"  occurred  at  the  frontier,  that  pacific  France 
was  finally  roused  to  ideas  of  self-defence.  The  papers 
were  full  of  episodes  and  incidents  whose  official  explana- 
tions rendered  them  only  the  more  astonishing.  Robert 
Lavenu  would  call  frequently  to  discuss  it  all  with  M. 
Badajeze  and  Mademoiselle  Odette. 

"What  are  we  waiting  for?    We  must  be  avenged  for 
these   continual   provocations!"   he  cried,   clanking   his 
sword. 

"We  are  waiting  to  be  attacked;  and  we  shall  not  be 
ready,"  M.  Badajeze  replied,  in  that  dry  way  of  his, 
solemn  yet  with  a  grin  at  the  back  of  it. 

"Papa,  I  don't  like  the  way  you  are  talking,"  pouted 
Mademoiselle  Odette.  "It  is  not  wise,  as  your  ideas 
usually  are.  I  agree  entirely  with  M.  Lavenu." 

To  which  Paul  added  with  emphasis:  "And  I  don't." 
But  he  was  addressing  only  me. 


68  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Paul  had  gone  home  at  the  usual  hour.  His  father 
would  not  be  in  for  a  while,  yet;  his  alleged  mother  sat 
heavily  in  her  chair  near  the  window. 

Odd  details  showed  that  the  house  had  been  neglected. 
He  made  no  motion  to  remedy  them,  for  he  had  left  school, 
he  was  doing  a  man's  work.  A  soft  snore  presently  told 
him  that  his  mother  slept.  Of  late,  she  had  not  been  well. 
Weak  in  addition  to  irritable,  and  with  peculiar,  drawn 
features.  Often  she  could  not  eat,  though  she  was  growing 
stout,  and  would  start  crying  nobody  knew  why. 

From  his  own  seat  in  the  corner  farthest  away  from 
the  table,  Paul  looked  out  into  the  street.  Night  was 
closing  down.  One  or  two  lights  shone  prematurely 
across  the  way,  flickering  colourless  and  ridiculous.  Their 
rays  could  not  even  pierce  the  atmosphere.  Workmen 
passed,  carrying  tools  or  bundles;  their  shoulders  were 
bowed  and  their  feet  shifted  heavily.  Paul  wondered  how 
long  it  would  be  before  he  walked  so.  Boys  passed,  too — 
apprentices  like  himself,  walking  already  like  their  elders. 

"That  started  me  thinking,"  he  observed  when  relating 
the  scene  to  me.  "It's  not  only  because  they  are  tired, 
but  because  they  don't  care,  that  workmen  let  themselves 
go.  I  said  to  myself,  'If  I  try  not  to  walk  like  those  boys 
now,  then  perhaps  I  needn't  be  like  those  men  later.' " 

The  darkness  grew  deeper.  Rays  from  the  lights  across 
the  way  cut  long,  clear  shafts  of  silvered  gold  through 
the  night,  and  struck  the  street.  The  end  of  one  ray 
rested  on  a  tiny  tuft  of  grass,  bringing  each  blade  into 
relief — whereas  by  day  Paul  had  been  unaware  of  its 
existence.  A  foot  was  roughly  planted  on  it,  for  an 
instant;  the  grass  lay  flattened,  hideous.  The  foot  had 
belonged  to  a  boy;  one  running  swiftly,  who  yelled  some- 
thing again  and  again. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  69 

Presently  another  boy  ran  past,  yelling  too.  Paul 
got  up  and  crept  to  the  door,  after  an  instant's  thought 
of  opening  the  window.  But  if  the  noise  did  not  wake  his 
mother,  the  air  would. 

Though  narrow  and  having  small  importance,  the  street 
opened  at  one  end  into  the  Avenue  de  la  Republique, 
and  at  the  other  connected  with  the  business  quarter; 
so  there  were  hours  when  numbers  of  people  went  by. 
Its  entire  character  had  changed,  however;  the  inhabitants 
themselves  poured  out  of  their  houses. 

Still  another  boy  ran  by,  stopped  to  take  a  newspaper 
from  his  arm,  and  hurried  on.  Paul,  mingling  with  the 
groups,  listened  to  comments  and  tried  to  read  a  line  or 
two  of  print. 

"Ah,  the  pigs!"  stormed  a  burly  mason  in  grey  cor- 
duroys. His  boots  were  grey  too,  and  his  hands,  and  his 
face  and  hair.  Only  the  thick  neck  stood  out  a  startling 
red  in  the  lustre  of  a  near-by  gas-jet.  "Ah,  the  pigs! 
Openly  spying,  as  well  as  insulting  us!" 

"Next  thing,  if  we  are  not  careful,  we  shall  be  at  war," 
piped  a  wizened  little  carpenter.  Paul  knew  he  must  be  a 
carpenter,  because  of  a  place  stitched  in  his  trousers  to 
hold  a  ruler.  Only  no  ruler  was  there. 

"You  may  talk — you're  not  fit  for  field  service," 
grunted  the  mason.  "I've  got  a  wife  and  children  to 
think  of." 

"They  won't  begrudge  you!"  said  a  woman.  "I'll 
have  to  give  a  husband  and  a  son — but  I  sha'n't  hold  them 
back!" 

"I  who  saw  1870  tell  you — keep  out  of  war  if  you  can," 
came  the  dictum  of  the  carpenter.  His  cheeks  were  as 
parchment  above  a  sparse  white  beard;  his  voice  was  as 
weak  as  the  light  of  his  tired  eyes.  "There  are  things 


70  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

we  soldiers  of  that  time  don't  talk  about,  my  children. 
We  know  what  Prussians  are.  Keep  out  of  war  if  you 
can." 

"Yes,  but  what  if  war  is  forced  on  us?  "  cried  the  woman. 
Hers  was  a  massive  form,  surmounted  by  a  small  round 
head  with  fat  rosy  cheeks  and  black  hair  drawn  very 
tightly  to  a  knot  on  her  ample  neck.  "Are  we  always 
to  be  fearing  for  our  husbands  and  children?  It  must 
end  some  time.  Let  it  come  now!" 

"It's  all  right  for  hot-heads  to  gossip  at  street-corners," 
the  carpenter's  plaintive  voice  returned.  "But  our 
political  leaders  know  what  is  needed.  If  we  could  make 
peace  three  times  within  eight  years,  we  can  let  them 
play  about  this  time  again." 

"What,  on  our  own  soil?"  exclaimed  a  newcomer. 
Marcel  Lavenu  could  be  trusted  to  find  centres  of  ex- 
citement. 

"A  boy  knows  nothing  of  such  matters,"  cried  the  little 
old  man  who  looked  like  a  carpenter. 

"Boy  or  not,  I  earn  a  man's  living — which  is  more  than 
you  can  pretend  to  do,  Pere  Elard!"  Marcel  retorted. 
"And  I'm  ready  to  fight,  which  is  more  than  you  are. 
Which  of  us,  then,  has  the  better  right  to  talk?" 

"The  one  who  does  the  least  thinking,"  said  the  old 
man  sharply.  And,  considering  the  point  proved  at  the 
boy's  expense,  he  proceeded  to  hold  forth:  "There  will  be 
strikes.  When  the  war  begins,  if  we  are  foolish  enough 
to  risk  it,  we  shall  be  paralysed  to  helplessness  by  our  own 
people.  You  needn't  shake  your  heads." 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  mason.  "We  have  but  to  hold 
the  frontier  forty -eight  hours,  and  the  whole  country 
will  be  swept  by  an  enthusiasm  which  no  enemy  could  stem. 
If  we  were  to  penetrate  into  Alsace — if  we  could  claim 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  71 

to  have  reconquered  by  force  of  arms  as  much  as  one 
yard  of  our  lost  provinces — then,  my  friends,  pity  Ger- 
many! For  our  ardour  would  crush  her  as  surely  as  my 
heel  now  crushes  this  pebble." 

He  brought  his  foot  down  with  a  resounding  thud. 
The  noise  satisfied  his  audience.  But  the  pebble  had 
escaped  unharmed;  round  and  polished,  it  slipped  under 
the  blow,  and  shot  out.  Paul  knew;  for  it  struck  his 
ankle. 

"That's  the  way  a  French  workman  talks,"  Marcel 
declared.  "The  matter  with  Pere  Elard  is  that  he  fears 
for  his  rentes." 

It  appeared  that  the  old  carpenter  without  tools  lived 
on  a  little  income  supplied  by  distant  relatives. 

"What  has  happened?"  Paul  asked  Marcel  in  an  ex- 
cited, breathy  whisper. 

"German  aeroplane,  mounted  by  officers  in  uniform, 
landed  far  on  our  side  of  the  frontier,  at  Arracourt. 
They  plead  a  *  mistake'  as  usual,  of  course.  So  was  their 
Zeppelin  cruising  over  our  national  territory  by  'mistake* 
three  weeks  ago, — and  kept  on  'mistaking'  for  a  hundred 
miles  more.  So  it  was  by  'mistake'  that  their  boy  scouts, 
led  by  an  officer  of  the  active  army,  crossed  our  frontier 
with  flag  flying  and  band  playing  two  days  ago,  selecting 
by  'mistake'  the  very  frontier  post  where  war  was  very 
nearly  forced  on  us  before  you  and  I  were  born.  So 
it  was  by  'mistake' — but  what's  the  use  of  recalling  it  all? 
We  can't  put  up  with  this  sort  of  thing  for  ever;  we  have 
self-respect  as  a  nation,  or  else  we  haven't.  I  shall  go 
off  as  a  bicycle-scout.  Don't  you  wish  you  had  stuck 
to  my  trade?  The  war  may  be  on  already,  while  these 
silly  people  are  gabbling  here.  I  can't  waste  any  more 
time."  After  a  few  paces,  he  stopped:  "Paul!"  And 


72          THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

as  the  other  came  up  slowly  yet  eagerly:  "My  brother 
Robert's  at  home — he  will  know.  Let's  run  for  it.  Come 
along!" 

He  set  the  pace,  Paul  following. 

Robert  Lavenu  was  in  his  father's  carriage-house,  seated 
on  the  step  of  a  luxurious  equipage.  Draped  in  sheeting, 
it  made  a  mountain  behind  him;  or  perhaps  a  throne. 
Before  him  several  youngsters  from  the  town  and  a  couple 
of  stable-boys  were  clustered,  some  standing,  others 
perched  on  boxes.  The  steps  of  less  imposing  vehicles 
lay  invitingly  accessible;  but,  from  deference  to  the  hero, 
were  unoccupied.  Marcel  himself  sat  modestly  on  the 
floor.  Lucky  they  had  not  chosen  the  stables,  Paul 
reflected  as  he  threw  himself  down  near  his  friend. 

The  young  dragoon  wore  a  blue  and  red  uniform,  with 
leather  boot-tops  reaching  nearly  to  his  knees  and  spurs 
that  jingled  when  he  stamped  his  foot  as  he  often  did, 
and  a  huge  sword  which  he  seemed  to  catch  between  his 
legs  on  purpose  to  make  it  clank.  His  cap  was  thrust 
back  on  his  head;  a  cigarette  decorated  his  lips,  above 
which  downy  hairs  were  visible. 

"You  boys  can  see  for  yourselves  how  right  I  was,"  he 
declared,  magnificently  discarding  a  half-burned  cigarette 
and  lighting  another.  "Here,  want  to  smoke?  Take 
some,  all  of  you." 

He  tossed  the  package.  They  were  real  soldiers' 
cigarettes,  of  the  coarsest,  sharpest  tobacco.  Everybody 
took  one.  There  were  now  nine  little  glows  of  smoulder- 
ing ash  in  the  semi-gloom  caused  by  one  lantern  in  conflict 
with  the  night  of  the  carriage-house. 

"If  I  hadn't  anticipated  my  conscription,  I  shouldn't 
be  ready  to  do  much  good,  for  it  will  be  a  short  and  ter- 
rible campaign,"  the  trooper  went  on  sagaciously.  "But 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  73 

there  are  a  hundred  thousand  in  France  who've  done  like 
me." 

The  statement  was  received  with  a  gasp.  One  of  the 
stable-boys  ventured  a  "Really?  As  many  as  that?" 

"As  many?  Much  more!"  declared  Robert  Lavenu. 
"Why!  The  military  authorities  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  the  new  volunteers  who  keep  on  pouring  in.  At 
some  places,  enlistments  are  being  refused  unless  they 
are  for  four  or  five  years.  No  other  way  to  get  rid  of  part 
of  the  men  who  feel  they  can't  possibly  wait  until  autumn. 
I  could  name  barracks  where  the  old  class  is  being  released 
in  advance,  to  make  room." 

"How  long  have  you  known  war  was  coming,  Robert?" 
Marcel  broke  in.  "You  didn't  tell  me." 

"That  sort  of  information  isn't  for  civilians,"  the  warrior 
of  nineteen  retorted  grandly.  "If  I  can  talk  now,  it's 
only  because  of  what  has  just  happened.  Our  major 
keeps  repeating:  'We  shall  do  nothing  to  provoke  war, 
but  it's  bound  to  come,  and  you  boys  must  work  hard  to 
be  ready  for  it.'  That's  what  he  tells  us,  but  he  doesn't 
know  anything — oh,  no!  Nor  do  we." 

Again  he  passed  the  cigarettes,  roundly  cursing  Paul 
in  most  magnificent  trooper  style  for  not  having  finished 
yet.  He  had  no  idea  who  the  boy  was;  but  Paul,  ignoring 
this  detail,  appreciated  the  courtesy  shown  him  by  a  rival, 
and  a  military  rival  at  that. 

Lavenu  went  on  to  describe  his  new  mode  of  life.  In 
bed  at  nine  and  up  at  five,  he  was  sleeping  well  for  the 
first  time  in  years.  He  could  not  say  he  precisely  liked 
taking  care  of  the  horses.  Dirty  work,  and  often  dan- 
gerous. That  very  morning,  he  had  had  his  cape  torn 
off  and  just  saved  his  left  cheek  from  the  jaws  of  a  vicious 
mare.  But  the  discipline,  the  regularity,  the  exercise 


74  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

were  highly  agreeable;  and  as  for  health — well,  boys, 
judge  for  yourselves ! 

The  tactless  youth  of  the  stables  again  interposed : 

"I  know  some  soldiers  who  complain." 

"They  are  not  philosophers.  You  can  find  people  in 
all  trades  who  want  the  fun  and  whine  at  the  work. 
That's  the  psychology  of  kickers  in  the  army.  I've 
observed  them  at  close  quarters." 

Swift  questions  were  asked  and  answered  throughout 
the  group;  all  agreed  that  those  who  complained  of  life 
in  the  ranks  had  previously  complained  about  most  things 
they  had  been  forced  to  do. 

In  his  excitement,  the  trooper  had  let  his  cigarette  go 
out — quite  a  fresh  one.  A  big  overgrown  boy  with  a  head 
like  a  gibbous  moon  and  a  face  a  size  too  large  for  it, 
held  out  a  box  of  matches,  saying: 

"They're  English.     I  got  them  from  a  friend." 

"If  the  English  stand  by  us,  all  will  be  well,"  said 
Robert  Lavenu,  looking  at  a  gaudy  picture  on  the  box. 
"  We  need  only  their  navy,  but  a  landing  army  would  help 
at  the  frontier." 

As  he  was  striking  the  match,  a  line  of  fine  print  under 
the  picture  caught  his  eye.  Leaving  the  seat  of  state, 
he  went  up  to  the  lantern,  read  carefully,  flushed  with 
anger,  and  sent  the  box  flying  into  the  street : 

"Made  in  Germany,  you  sort  of  a  sacred  imbecile! 
What  good  patriot — what  real  comrade — has  a  French 
match  to  give  me?" 

The  culprit  stole  away  into  the  night;  others  slipped  out 
as  if  the  guilt  were  theirs.  The  trooper  was  left  puffing, 
furiously  silent,  while  stable-boys  talked  nonsense. 

Alone  in  the  deserted  stillness  of  the  town  echoing  his 
footsteps,  Paul  felt  the  weight  of  catastrophe  already 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  75 

upon  him.  He  saw  his  father  mobilised;  himself  alone 
with  the  mother  who  was  not  even  his  stepmother.  His 
sentiments  contained  nothing  noble  nor  heroic  nor  gener- 
ous. Years  before,  his  grandfather's  words  had  sug- 
gested that  war  was  not  nice.  Having  thought  about  it 
since,  and  listened  to  various  opinions,  he  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  wars  did  not  solve  anything,  but  only 
killed  a  lot  of  people  and  cost  much  money  which  sur- 
vivors paid  in  taxes.  Five  years  more,  and  he  too  would 
be  called  out.  Whatever  Robert  Lavenu  might  say 
of  the  rosy  side  of  it,  he  would  have  to  dress  in  somebody 
else's  cast-off  uniform;  sleep  on  unclean  straw  in  noisy, 
windy  barracks;  eat  coarse  beef  and  beans  boiled  in  salt, 
and  soggy  soldier-bread;  be  drilled  and  marched  regard- 
less of  weather,  and  ordered  about  by  a  rough  non- 
commissioned officer.  For  what?  To  be  killed  if  war 
came,  and  lose  his  deftness  at  trade  if  war  did  not  come. 

He  found  his  father  looking  very  grave  over  the  paper; 
his  mother  sat  pale  and  limp  over  her  extraordinary  form. 
They  did  not  ask  why  he  was  late,  nor  notice  him  at  all 
as  he  ate  dinner  between  them. 

Bed-time  came.  They  did  not  seem  to  hear  Paul's 
good-night.  But  as  though  his  voice  or  his  movement 
had  roused  her  from  a  trance,  the  woman  spoke. 

"Albert — "she  had  never  appealed  so  gently — "do 
you  know  that  if  the  war  comes,  I  have  no  right  to  an 
allowance  because  you  are  in  the  army;  and  our  child " 

Paul  stumbled  out  into  the  hall.  The  blood  surged 
furiously  within  him;  he  was  stifled,  could  scarcely  control 
his  muscles  to  go  upstairs.  Reaching  his  room,  he  opened 
the  window.  The  night  was  so  black  that  he  could  not 
see  his  beloved  river-banks;  the  course  of  the  water  itself 
was  marked  by  a  faint  ghost-like  trail  of  mist.  At  last 


76  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

he  breathed  once  more:  not  because  of  the  free  air  which 
rushed  to  him,  but  because  he  could  hurl  into  space  an 

indignation  too  great  for  mere  earth  to  contain 

Their  child?    God  help  him— NO! 

II 

"I'VE  been  to  the  chateau  again,"  Paul  said  to  me. 
"Not  as  a  tourist,  but  invited  by  the  Marquis." 

"Invited?"  I  echoed. 

"Yes.  M.  Badajeze  is  repairing  some  Louis  XV  bronzes 
for  him — very  beautiful.  And  I  am  to  go,  always;  the 
Marquis  wishes  it." 

Once,  twice,  or  thrice  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  ten 
days,  Paul  came  to  see  me  soon  after  dinner.  Our  even- 
ings were  divided  between  study  and  conversation. 
Occasionally  he  would  bring  me  problems  of  a  political 
or  a  philosophical  order;  and  my  replies,  if  happily 
phrased,  would  be  rewarded  with  the  wondering  smile. 
Seen  less  rarely,  nowadays,  it  had  not  suffered  in  charm  nor 
in  spontaneity. 

Treated  by  his  master  with  bluff  good-nature,  sufficient 
encouragement,  and  laudable  firmness,  Paul  was  liked  and 
trusted  by  an  amiable,  bibulous  head-workman  whose 
"friend  to  speak  to  at  the  corner"  came  many  times  a  day, 
but  resulted  only  in  stiff  solemnity  and  a  wish  not  to  be 
disturbed  at  a  task  which  never  suffered  in  consequence. 

Among  the  boys,  Paul  recognised  one,  Henri,  as  a  good, 
steady  little  workman;  and  for  another,  Ernest,  he  had 
sympathy  because,  living  in  a  railway  van,  his  behaviour 
was  yet  becoming  and  his  zeal  unfailing.  But  still  another 
was  a  problem  for  Paul  and  a  source  of  preoccupation  for 
me. 

Andre  Manadan,  the  chief  culprit  in  the  theft  and 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  77 

scandal  at  Delligny's,  had  come  pretending  never  to 
have  worked  in  Verviller,  bringing  his  mother  and  a 
letter  to  corroborate  the  statement  that  he  had  spent  a 
year  with  relatives  in  the  country.  M.  Badajeze  had 
been  out,  and  the  compagnon  was  pursuing  a  "customer 
at  the  corner,"  for  a  change;  so  Mademoiselle  Odette 
had  received  the  dreary,  slovenly  woman  seeming  younger 
than  the  wreck  of  a  boy  who  tried  to  hide  behind  skirts 
even  more  meagre  and  retiring  than  he. 

Mademoiselle  Odette  must  have  been  smitten  with 
compassion  and  pleaded  for  him  when  her  father  returned. 
Surely  M.  Badajeze  could  not  have  put  faith  in  the  boy's 
shifty  eyes  with  bluish  circles  under  them,  conspicuous 
features  in  a  withered,  greenish  face;  nor  did  he  lack 
extensive  choice  of  possible  material  for  apprentices. 
Or  perhaps  he  decided,  arbitrary  and  charitable,  to 
give  this  eminently  hopeless  wastrel  a  chance.  Such  an 
action  would  not  have  been  out  of  keeping  with  his  char- 
acter. Strict  in  the  sense  of  duty  towards  his  "art," 
he  would  not  have  allowed  the  excellence  of  his  output 
to  be  compromised;  but  among  six  boys,  one  on  an  average 
was  apt  to  turn  out  badly,  and  logic  may  have  whispered 
that,  beginning  ill  in  such  a  case,  he  might  end  well  while 
doing  a  kindness. 

The  chance  did  not,  however,  improve  Andre  Manadan, 
Paul  told  me.  The  very  healthiness  of  their  surround- 
ings gave  him  opportunities  for  deception  and  unfairness. 
Somehow,  he  always  managed  to  conceal  his  blunders 
as  well  as  his  deliberate  evil,  escaping  reprimand  and 
winning  consideration.  Given  an  adequate  dose  of 
hypocrisy,  it  was  easy  to  blind  the  bibulous  compagnon. 
M.  Badajeze  had  sharper  eyes,  but  when  he  was  about, 
the  little  sneak  knew  better  than  to  run  risks. 


78          THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"If  a  key  is  found,  quite  spoiled,  thrown  under  the 
work-bench,  it's  never  the  one  he  had;  or  if  there's  proof 
it  was,  then  he  pretends  he  finished  somebody  else's." 

"Or  complains  of  his  tools,"  I  suggested. 

"No.  M.  Badajeze  soon  cures  us  of  that.  He  says: 
'It's  a  poor  workman  who  complains  of  his  tools — the 
good  workman  goes  and  gets  what  he  needs.'  Andre 
Manadan  just  lies  about  it,  and  sticks  to  the  lie  so  he  can 
outface  anybody.  What  can  you  do,  anyhow,  with  a 
slippery  worm  so  soft  you  mustn't  step  on  it,  and  so 
dirty  you  wouldn't  touch  it,  and  so  disgusting  you  can't 
be  comfortable  when  it's  in  the  room?  He  actually 
tried  to  be  pals  with  me  because  I'd  been  discharged 
through  his  fault.  I  told  him  what  I  thought  of  that, 
but  he  only  laughed.  If  he  hadn't  been  so  weak  and 
little  and  miserable,  I'd  have  slapped  him  next  day,  when 
he  sneered  at  Mademoiselle  Odette.  I  swore  at  him  so 
hard,  though,  that  he  stopped  his  insolence  to  her  and  his 
interference  with  me.  Now  he  looks  at  me  out  of  the 
corners  of  his  yellow  eyes  and  talks  about  comradeship 
and  loyalty  till  I  get  sick  of  both.'* 

Next  day,  I,  too,  received  an  "invitation"  to  the 
chateau;  mine  was  for  lunch.  Once  I  had  met  the  Mar- 
quis in  Paris,  at  the  house  of  a  noted  psychologist;  he 
had  been  interested  in  my  work  on  racial  and  social  move- 
ments. He  had  a  fancy  for  scientific  and  philosophical 
ideas  provided  they  neither  demanded  close  study  nor 
conflicted  with  his  religious  beliefs.  I  should  have  called 
on  him  when  he  returned  to  Verviller,  but  did  not,  for 
I  shrank  from  society  obligations.  Since  he  remembered 
me  now,  it  must  be  that  he  saw  a  relation  between  my 
principles  as  then  expounded  and  the  international  events 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  79 

which  had  re-awakened  patriotism  in  France.  Beneath 
these  manifestations  of  human  energy,  the  vast  laws  to 
whose  analysis  I  devoted  my  life  were  at  work;  and, 
flattered  that  he  should  be  aware  of  this,  I  went  to  the 
chateau. 

Often,  in  my  walks,  I  had  passed  those  stately  windows 
and  cornices  and  chimney -tops.  It  was  a  splendid  pile, 
which  many  tourists  came  to  see;  mainly  Renaissance, 
it  had  not  been  altered  at  all  since  the  period  of  Louis 
XV;  its  halls  and  rooms  were  filled  with  handsome  and 
suitable  furniture,  hangings,  pictures,  piously  collected 
by  several  generations  of  Vervillers  to  repair  the  havoc 
of  the  Revolution.  The  Marquis  of  that  period,  like  the 
present  one,  had  been  a  kindly  old  gentleman,  spending 
on  the  town  each  year  a  considerable  portion  of  his 
revenues.  The  people  had  loved  their  XVIIIth  Century 
lord  as  they  loved  the  present  Marquis;  which  had  not 
deterred  them  from  plundering  and  destroying  his  goods 
and  chattels,  under  the  pretext  of  fraternity  and  other 
humanitarian  sentiments.  They  would  have  carried 
their  exertions  in  his  behalf  to  the  degree  of  stringing 
him  up  on  a  lamp-post,  if  he  had  not  been  arrested  at 
Paris  and  fittingly  guillotined  as  an  aristocrat.  In  old 
days,  the  town's  name  had  been  spelled  with  a  final  "s" 
like  that  of  the  family  which  gave  it  birth.  But  Revolu- 
tionary principles  had  abolished  that  superfluous,  hence 
luxurious,  hence  aristocratic  and  abominable  letter; 
and  no  effort  since  made  by  the  lords  of  Vervillers  had 
induced  the  locality  to  abandon  plebeian  vulgarity  in 
the  shape  of  Verviller. 

I  thought  of  this,  going  through  the  wrought-iron 
gates  which  led  almost  immediately  to  the  door.  The 
town  pressed  close  upon  the  chateau;  the  estates  had 


80  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

been  confiscated  and  sold,  and  could  not  be  recovered 
when  the  son  of  the  beheaded  Marquis  preferred  his 
claim  under  the  Restoration.  A  street  ran  within  three 
yards  of  windows  which  once  had  commanded  a  lawn 
and  an  avenue  leading  to  the  church — whose  steeple 
still  challenged  the  towering  chimneys,  but  above  homely 
house-tops. 

As  I  rang,  a  boy  in  workingman's  clothes  came  out  by 
the  side-door.  It  was  Paul,  who  greeted  me  with  a  nod; 
one  hand  carried  a  small  parcel,  the  other  did  not  seek 
his  cap.  The  free-and-easy  way  of  the  bicycle-shop 
had  adhered  to  him,  but  without  insolence;  had  trans- 
formed itself  into  that  rare,  unconscious  form  of  freedom 
proper  to  the  light  heart  and  the  direct  mind  unfettered 
by  ambitions  or  prejudices,  unable  to  feel  inferiority 
of  position  because  grasping  superiority  only  of  mind 
or  of  achievement.  I  had  just  nodded  back,  when  a 
couple  of  footmen  took  charge  of  me,  intensifying  their 
professional  solemnity  to  atone  for  my  breach  of  manners 
in  perceiving  an  apprentice.  One  of  them,  conspicuously 
accustomed  to  the  best  families,  punished  me  at  luncheon 
by  twice  omitting  to  serve  me. 

The  Marquis's  words  of  greeting  confirmed  my  belief 
that  he  had  sought  renewed  contact  because  of  our  con- 
versation. There  was  another  guest,  introduced  as 
Frere  Alexandre;  from  the  name  and  from  Paul's  descrip- 
tion, I  knew  him  to  be  the  superior  of  the  Brothers' 
school.  I  wondered  how,  after  the  application  of  the  law 
against  religious  orders,  he  should  still  be  here,  in  his 
habit;  occupying  his  original  post,  too,  as  I  presently 
learned. 

The  Marquis  de  Vervillers,  stout  and  of  average  height, 
with  sparse,  carefully  brushed  hair  and  an  ample  mous- 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  81 

tache  grey  nearly  to  whiteness,  had  that  species  of  dignity 
found  in  two  categories  of  men.  Early  training  and  wide 
experience,  reinforced  by  the  custom  of  exalted  position, 
can  give  it;  or  else  the  consciousness  of  a  high  and  rare 
genius  which  has  proved  its  worth  and  attained  maturity. 
Frere  Alexandre,  on  the  contrary,  was  characterised  by 
the  cultured  simplicity  and  genuine  amiability  sometimes 
found  among  men  in  orders  who  can  be  earnest  while 
avoiding  bigotry. 

We  were  no  sooner  seated  at  table  than  the  Marquis 
began  to  question  me  about  my  ideas.  I  gave,  as  rapidly 
and  concisely  as  I  could,  a  summary  of  the  work  to  which 
I  had  devoted  forty  years  and  more.  Listening  with  deep 
interest,  asking  an  appropriate  question  or  making  a 
commentary  to  Frere  Alexandre,  the  Marquis  led  me 
on;  and  when  I  had  finished,  he  opened  a  new  conversation, 
just  as  easily,  on  local  charities  and  religious  questions. 
Then  it  was  I  understood  that  the  motive  for  my  presence 
had  not  yet  been  revealed.  I  took  to  wondering  why 
I  was  there — reflecting  that  Paul's  "invitation"  had  been 
more  logical  and  more  useful. 

"Equality?"  the  Marquis  said,  capping  a  remark  from 
Frere  Alexandre.  "I  never  mention  it,  because  it  is  of 
those  things  which  destroy  themselves.  Equality  dies 
as  soon  as  created,  since  it  reposes  on  the  principle  of 
proving  oneself  better  than  one's  neighbour.  Every  day 
we  see  men  working  to  tear  down  all  that  exists,  all  that 
is  noble  and  beautiful,  all  that  tradition  has  handed  us, 
all  that  education  and  civilisation  have  done  to  make 
gentlemen.  And  these  same  men  have  the  one  ambition 
of  bettering  their  own  positions  and  giving  higher  educa- 
tion to  their  own  children!  If  culture  is  wrong  in  others, 
if  all  that  reveres  tradition  is  reaction,  if  elevation  is  to  be 


82          THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

scorned  and  denounced  and  fought  against,  then  surely 
these  conditions  do  not  change  their  essential  character 
when  applied  to  oneself.  In  order  to  be  sincere,  he 
who  contemns  superiority  in  others  should  not  seek  it  for 
himself  nor  for  those  near  him, — lest  he  proclaim  himself 
selfishly  ambitious.  But  hypocrisy  is  a  profitable  policy 
in  the  world;  by  crying  down  others,  a  man  attracts 
attention  to  them,  diverting  it  from  himself;  and  so  the 
day  comes  when  he  can  safely  throw  down  what  was 
noble  and  refined,  to  put  himself  in  its  place — and  begin 
the  refining  and  nobilising  process  if  he  will.  Only  often 
he  will  not." 

Very  well  worded,  and  uttered  most  eloquently.  I 
remembered  reading  a  newspaper  report  of  it,  the  first 
time  he  got  it  off  in  a  public  address.  At  least,  I  presume 
it  was  the  first  time. 

Frere  Alexandre  listened,  pale,  cool,  resigned.  He  spoke 
softly,  evenly: 

"The  trouble,  M.  le  Marquis,  lies  not  so  much  with 
what  is  being  done  for  the  labouring  classes,  or  with  the 
methods  employed,  as  with  the  material  chosen  for  such 
efforts.  Right  influence  goes  farther  than  evil,  where  a 
nucleus  of  good  hearts  is  the  field  for  sowing.  I  have 
observed  many  boys,  from  those  now  seven  years  old 
back  to  those  who  reached  that  age  when  I  began  teaching, 
more  than  thirty  years  ago.  As  long  as  the  heart  is  right, 
defects  of  character  are  secondary  matters;  as  soon  as  the 
heart  goes  wrong,  the  struggle  is  seemingly  hopeless.  I 
say  seemingly,  because  God  in  His  wisdom  has  ways  we  do 
not  know.  But  men  dare  not  hope  in  such  cases,  even 
where  duty  bids  us  persevere.  Take  my  word  for  it — 
classify  your  material  by  the  amount  of  heart  possessed; 
and  if  you  on  your  side  are  blessed  with  the  celestial 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  83 

quality  of  love,  you  will  succeed.  A  narrow  doctrine, 
you  may  think.  Yet  justified  by  the  parable  of  the  sower 
with  the  seed.  That  falling  among  rocks  and  tares  was 
negligible,  provided  that  in  good  earth  profited. — You 
look  scandalised,  Monsieur,"  he  added,  turning  his  gentle 
eyes  and  thoughtful  forehead  towards  me.  "I  do  not 
know  how  much  personal  experience  you  have  had  with 
charitable  works " 

"None,"  I  said  dryly.  "Now  I  have  scandalised  you. 
I  shall  completely  mortify  your  better  feelings,  I  fear, 
by  adding  that  I  consider  'charity'  an  outrage  to  brother 
man.  How  can  we  'give'  when  we  have  nothing  of  our 
own?  Can  we  do  more  than  share — provided  we  are  not 
encouraging  vice  nor  neglecting  sacred  duties  to  ourselves 
or  to  those  dependent  on  us?  I  am  sorry  if  my  words 
offend  you, — or  you,  Marquis " 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  I  feel  entirely  as  you  do," 
the  Marquis  assured  me.  "And  I  have  heard  Frere 
Alexandre  express  himself  similarly." 

When  one  of  my  periods  of  insomnia  sets  in,  I  still 
wonder,  in  the  night,  how  the  opinions  stated  by  the 
Brother  and  himself  could  be  reconciled  with  mine.  But 
perhaps  I  was  not  meant  for  a  society  man. 

The  Marquis  next  spoke  warmly  of  Frere  Alexandre 's 
work  to  regenerate  France  by  continuing  Catholic  educa- 
tion in  our  town.  Politically,  I  knew,  M.  de  Vervillers 
had  left  Monarchism  aside  for  Catholicism;  while  not 
believing  the  Royalist  cause  to  be  dead  as  some  pretended, 
he  considered  it  could  be  best  served  by  allowing  various 
waves  of  violent  feeling  to  blow  in  other  directions.  The 
association  between  Frere  Alexandre  and  himself  in  this 
new  programme  was  close. 

"Alas!    You  exaggerate  my  importance  here,  M.  le 


84  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Marquis,  and  I  fear  you  overrate  the  influence  which  any 
of  us  may  have,"  the  Brother  said  sadly.  "God,  in  His 
infinite  mercy,  grant  you  may  be  right.  But  I,  beholding 
the  fatal  slope  upon  which  our  Republic  is  launched — 
remembering  the  catastrophes  visited  upon  us  during 
these  ten  years — talking  with  men  whom  I  have  known 
since  days  when  their  boyish  souls  kept  no  secrets  from 
me — hearing  in  their  words  the  admission  of  a  weakened 
faith,  an  altered  conscience,  a  loosened  morality,  a  freedom 
which  constitutes  the  worst  of  tyrannies  because  it  is  as 
absolute  as  it  is  unbounded, — I  say  that  forty  years 
will  be  needed  to  undo  the  harm  so  lightly  done.  You 
and  I — and  you,  M.  Aubret — shall  not  live  to  see  the 
beginning  of  a  change.  When  the  boys  now  corrupted 
in  Communal  schools  have  grown  up  and  done  their  worst 
by  our  unhappy  country,  then  a  still  younger  generation 
will  appreciate  the  necessity  to  turn,  as  did  their  glorious 
forefathers,  to  the  path  shown  them  by  our  Saviour 
and  His  Blessed  Mother.  The  reaction  may  come  then, 
but  not  before." 

"Young  Clermont  may  live  to  see  it,"  the  Marques 
observed. 

And  as  I  looked  up  in  unconcealed  amazement  that  the 
Marquis  de  Vervillers  should  mention  a  locksmith's 
apprentice — though  an  art-locksmith — at  his  antique 
table  in  his  ancestral  dining-hall,  he  quietly  informed  me 
that  he  had  bought  the  Brothers'  school,  and  provided 
it  with  a  complete  staff  of  principal  and  teachers,  all 
laymen.  The  Government  had  not  yet  been  able  to  dis- 
possess him.  Frere  Alexandre's  official  part  consisted 
only  in  being  a  modest  tenant,  who  rented  an  upstairs 
room  for  his  personal  use. 

Laughing,  the  Marquis  led  the  way  to  a  small  salon 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  85 

where  coffee  and  liqueurs  and  things  to  smoke  were 
brought.  When  the  servants  had  gone  out,  closing  the 
door,  he  addressed  me: 

"I  believe  you  know  young  Clermont?" 

Then  I  knew  that  neither  racial  questions  nor  religious 
controversies  had  suggested  this  triangular  luncheon 
party.  We  were  to  deal  with  my  Paul;  perhaps  discuss 
his  future  on  the  basis  of  "charity."  A  pang  of  jealousy 
shot  through  me — soon  drowned  in  a  frothing  sea  of  indig- 
nation. 

Ill 

ONE  of  those  pauses  fell,  in  which  we  notice  a  bit  of 
broken  match  on  a  table,  or  any  other  irrelevant  thing 
with  an  importance  borrowed  from  the  intensity  of  men 
during  great  emotions  or  planning  delicate  endeavours. 
Two  of  us,  I  think — the  second  being  Frere  Alexandre — 
were  in  the  first  category  of  men,  at  that  moment;  the 
Marquis  was  in  the  other. 

"I  find  myself  in  a  distressing  dilemma,  M.  Aubret," 
the  Marquis  de  Vervillers  began.  "Duties  towards  the 
community,  perhaps  towards  public  morals,  stand  on  the 
one  hand;  a  desire  to  be  as  merciful  as  circumstances  per- 
mit rises  on  the  other.  Stated  thus  simply,  the  situation 
might  seem  clear.  But  an  element  of  doubt  envelops 
it;  and  any  further  inquiries  would  involve  the  very 
person  I  wish  to  spare.  Frere  Alexandre  informs  me  that 
you  take  a  particular  interest  in  young  Clermont.  Before 
deciding,  I  should  be  happy  to  hear  your  opinion  of  this 
boy — and  of  the  facts  concerning  him." 

"You  don't  mean  he  was  committed  any — any "  I 

could  not  utter  the  word. 

The  Marquis  nodded: 


86  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"He  has  been  working  here.  Badajeze  is  repairing 
some  valuable  old  bronzes  for  me;  he  seems  to  trust  this 
Clermont,  and,  knowing  the  master,  I  asked  no  questions. 
After  a  week's  experience,  I  must  say  I  have  no  trust 
left.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Frere  Alexandre,  the  judicial 
inquiry  would  already  have  been  instituted." 

The  Brother  sighed,  and  his  weary  eyelids  drooped 
assentingly.  The  hand  with  which  he  adjusted  a  fold 
of  his  black  gown  quivered  slightly. 

"You  don't  mean  for  theft?"  I  managed  to  gasp. 

"The  charge  has  not  been  brought,"  the  Marquis 
pursued.  "No  questions  have  yet  been  asked,  nor  in- 
formation sought.  You  see,  once  I  send  for  Badajeze, 
the  matter  can  no  longer  be  stopped.  There  is  no  possi- 
ble doubt  as  to  what  has  occurred.  There  is  only  hesita- 
tion as  to  the  amount  of  severity  I  should  show.  It 
must  be  borne  in  mind  that  this  boy,  who  now  turns  out 
so  badly,  is  a  former  pupil  of  our  Catholic  school." 

Frere  Alexandre  made  a  deprecating  gesture  with  the 
thin,  blue-veined  hands  which  Paul  had  described  to  me: 

"  I  beg  of  you,  M.  le  Marquis,  be  careful.  He  was  with 
us  scarcely  half  a  year.  All  his  real  educational  influences 
came  from  the  Communal  school." 

"You  know  that  we  should  be  held  responsible,  mon 
frere,"  the  Marquis  returned,  rather  grimly.  "Our  anti- 
clerical adversaries  would  say,  'Five  months  of  religious 
influence  sufficed  to  pervert  the  youth's  mind,  so  that 
seven  full  years  of  Republican  education  could  not 
straighten  out  the  twists.'  The  man  Clermont  is  in  the 
tax  service;  a  scandal  about  his  son  would  certainly  be 
followed  by  inquiries  with  pre-arranged  charges  against 
the  legality  of  our  school.  This  would  mean  definite 
closing." 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          87 

"Think  only  of  the  general  principle,  M.  le  Marquis; 
only  of  the  general  principle.  Whether  we  are  to  be 
charitable  or  not — that  is  our  sole  concern.  I  plead 
for  Christian  charity.  His  father  has  married  the  woman, 
remember;  a  civil  marriage,  I  regret  to  say,  but  that  is 
better  than  a  life  of  open,  insolent  licentiousness  setting 
a  deplorable  example." 

So  the  marriage  had  taken  place.  Paul  had  been  very 
sober,  of  late,  but  had  not  mentioned  family  affairs. 

"If  they  did  not  ask  the  blessing  of  the  Church,  it  is  no 
marriage,  and  does  not  concern  me,"  said  the  Marquis. 
"Besides,  the  father  is  dangerous.  Mainly  because  of 
his  position,  since  he  lacks  influence  personally.  But 
a  mediocre  mind  like  his,  conforming  itself  readily  to  pop- 
ular doctrines,  must  always  be  handled  carefully." 

"He  has  conformed  to  them  by  marrying  the  woman 
at  the  Mairie;  his  influence  may  grow." 

"The  boy's  responsibility  is  what  counts;  the  rest  must 
be  set  aside,"  the  Marquis  exclaimed  with  impatience. 
"Whether  I  myself  proceed  against  him,  or  whether  I 
allow  him  the  benefit  of  an  unreal  doubt  so  that  he  may 
continue  on  his  career  of  vice  and  be  caught  elsewhere, 
a  scandal  is  awaiting  him  and,  consequently,  us.  I  am 
frank  in  admitting  that  the  possible  effect  upon  my 
school  interests  me  very  particularly.  Is  it  better  for  us 
to  face  this  now,  or  to  gain  time?  The  Government 
has  been  seeking  a  pretext  for  new  proceedings.  I  have 
already  escaped  four  attempts  at  application  of  the  original 
law,  and  one  or  two  additional  bills  passed  on  purpose 
to  catch  any  who  might  be  immune.  But  I  can't  hope 
for  such  success  indefinitely." 

He  had  turned  to  me.     I  addressed  him: 

"Since    you    are    frank    in    explaining  your  motives, 


88  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Monsieur — "my  tone  was  very  formal — "perhaps  you 
would  kindly  be  frank  also  in  telling  me  what  all  this  is 
about.  You  are  so  good  as  to  ask  my  opinion  on  a  matter 
you  don't  make  clear." 

"I  am  very  sorry!"  the  Marquis  said  with  charming 
simplicity.  "These  last  days,  I  have  talked  so  much  to 

Frere  Alexandre  that  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  details 

"Well!  I  shall  be  brief,  for  the  subject  is  unsavoury." 

Whereupon  he  proceeded,  in  the  leisurely  manner  of  the 
cultured  amateur,  to  develop,  first,  a  theme  which  never 
could  fail  in  its  appeal  to  him: 

"My  father  was  fortunate  enough  to  find,  in  Italy, 
some  very  handsomely  carved  mirror  ornaments.  French 
Louis  XV  bronze.  They  exactly  suited  this  chateau; 
were,  in  fact,  similar  to  some  of  the  same  period  whose 
traces  could  still  be  seen.  Ours  had  been  looted  during 
the  Revolution;  probably  sold  for  a  few  livres,  and  melted 
eventually  for  Napoleon's  wars,  like  almost  all  the  brass 
and  bronze  art-work  in  France.  That  is  why  we  can 
usually  secure,  now,  only  vulgar  Empire  designs  if  we 
wish  authentic  pieces,  or  else  abominable  imitations. 
Fortunately  for  people  of  taste,  much  of  our  best  work 
had  been  bought  by  foreigners  or  else  left  abroad  by 
French  Ministers  and  residents;  and  so  some  of  it  drifts 
home  again.  These  pieces  I  have  mentioned  were  beauti- 
ful, almost  unique,  and  became  famous;  experts  and  col- 
lectors have  come  to  study  them.  As  a  precaution,  I 
allowed  them  to  be  copied.  It  was  well  I  did,  for  they 
suffered,  one  summer  I  let  the  chateau  to  some  rich 
Americans." 

I  must  have  betrayed  my  surprise.  For  I  knew  the 
French  nobility  did  not  let  ancestral  homes  so  long  as  it 
was  possible  for  them  to  maintain  their  position.  And 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  89 

the  Vervillers  were  reputed  wealthy.  Had  not  the  present 
Marquis  been  able  to  afford  lavish  bounties  to  the  town — 
including  the  purchase  and  endowment  of  a  lay  school 
for  the  furtherance  of  Conservative  and  Catholic  senti- 
ments? 

"The  Republic  makes  things  very  hard  for  the  nobility, 
M.  Aubret,"  he  went  on.  "The  law  compelling  us  to 
divide  our  property  equally  among  our  children  has  as 
sole  object  the  breaking  up  of  estates.  The  chdteau 
must  go  with  my  title  to  the  Count  de  Vervillers;  but  it 
will  be  estimated  at  so  much  to  be  deducted  from  my 
gross  estate  for  division  into  equal  shares.  Of  course, 
there  are  arrangements;  our  family  is  a  united  one,  and 
my  heir  is  guardian  for  part  of  the  property  devolving 
by  law  to  his  sister.  Well,  that  summer  we  were  threat- 
ened with  new  taxes,  my  wife  was  ill  and  in  the  moun- 
tains, my  children  were  away,  I  did  not  like  the  prospect 
of  remaining  here  alone,  and  I  allowed  myself  to  be  tempted 
by  an  advantageous  offer.  When  I  resumed  possession, 
several  roses  and  love-knots  were  broken  from  the  bronzes. 
The  tenants  disclaimed  responsibility;  accused  tourists 
of  souvenir-collecting;  but  they  paid  most  generously, 
in  true  American  style,  rather  than  be  worried  by  the 
complications  of  French  jurisprudence  when  I  referred 
the  matter  to  my  attorney. 

"Several  years  had  passed,  when,  last  month,  I  called 
in  Badajeze.  He  undertook  the  work  of  restoration, 
and  carried  two  pieces  away  with  him.  He  had  occasion 
to  send  young  Clermont  with  a  message;  I  noticed  the  boy. 
While  I  esteem  the  master-craftsman,  I  find  him  disturb- 
ing; his  ideas  are  very  subversive,  I  don't  like  to  have  him 
about  the  place. 

"When  he  came  to  consult  me  over  some  complication, 


90  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

I  said,  'Who  is  that  boy?  Is  he  reliable?  Yes?  Then 
send  him,  in  the  future,  for  simple  things  an  apprentice 
can  attend  to.  You  are  too  much  of  an  artist  to  give 
your  time  to  small  details;  spare  yourself  as  much  as 
possible.' " 

"And  then?"  I  prompted. 

"The  boy  brought  pieces  back,  and  put  them  in  place. 
They  needed  only  adjusting  with  their  own  screws, 
which  had  been  set  aside.  But  they  were  not  my  originals 
with  restorations.  They  were  clever  copies." 

"Made  by  a  boy  so  inexperienced?"  I  interposed. 

"No.  Substituted  by  him.  Copies  already  existed, 
remember." 

"Did  you  keep  trace  of  those  you  authorised?" 

"You  believe  in  the  boy,  evidently.     So  did  I,  once." 

"May  I- 

"Oh,  certainly!  Badajeze  made  the  copies.  All  I 
know  beyond  this  rests  on  his  word  that  he  kept  them." 

"And  it  has  not  occurred  to  you  to  question  Badajeze?  " 

"Yes.  My  first  idea,  as  it  is  yours.  But  consider.  He 
is  no  fool,  and  may  be  wealthier  than  I,  since  he  has  few 
demands  upon  him.  Why  should  he  risk  a  stupid  theft, 
sure  of  detection  and  leading  to  disgrace?" 

Perhaps  M.  Badajeze  did  not  think  so  highly  of  the 
Marquis's  taste  and  knowledge  as  the  Marquis  himself 
did,  was  my  inner  comment. 

"No,  Badajeze  is  morally  incapable  of  such  an  act," 
M.  de  Vervillers  went  on.  "The  first  question  addressed 
to  him  on  the  subject  would  start  young  Clermont  in 
the  path  leading  straight  to  a  reformatory.  But  for 
Frere  Alexandre,  the  step  would  already  have  been  taken." 

"Your  humanitarian  sentiments  caused  you  to  hesitate, 
to  reflect,"  Frere  Alexandre  deprecated  suavely.  "It 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  91 

was  natural  that  your  emotions  upon  discovering  the 
fraud  should  have  found  an  intense  expression." 

"Luckily,  Frere  Alexandre  chanced  to  be  here."  The 
Marquis  still  addressed  me.  "I  took  him  in  the  drawing- 
room  to  admire  the  bronzes.  The  gilding  caught  my 
eye.  I  thought  the  light  had  played  me  a  trick.  Running 
my  fingers  over  the  intricate  inner  edges,  and  looking 
closely,  I  detected  a  smoothness  proper  to  mouldings, 
not  to  antique  hand-carvings.  Where  the  new  work 
was  supposed  to  be,  I  could  not  find  evidences  of  joining. 
Besides  which,  one  or  two  slight  defacements  of  the  origi- 
nals, which  were  to  have  been  restored  also,  had  not  been 
changed.  I  could  no  longer  doubt  that  these  were 
Badajeze's  copies,  admirable  like  everything  he  under- 
takes, but  frauds  conspicuous  to  the  eye  of  a  connois- 
seur. In  my  anger,  I  was  for  summoning  Badajeze  at 
once.  Frere  Alexandre  stopped  me,  recalling  that  the 
boy  had  been  a  pupil  at  our  school,  [and  suggesting  con- 
sequences  ' ' 

"The  principle  of  it,  M.  le  Marquis,  the  principle  of  it! 
I  remember  quite  distinctly  that  I  insisted  upon  this.  Of 
course  I  thought,  too,  of  the  child  whose  mind  I  had  tried 
to  fashion  for  happier  destinies.  But  it  was  the  prin- 
ciple- 

" Precisely,"  assented  the  Marquis.  "And  in  the  days 
which  have  elapsed,  we  have  continued  to  discuss  the 
principle,  M.  Aubret.  The  idea  of  talking  with  you  before 
the  affair  goes  further  was  his,  and  met  with  my  entire 
approval.  Since  you  are  not  only  well  acquainted  with 
the  boy,  but  appear  to  take  an  interest  in  him " 

"Give  me  a  week,  and  I  undertake  to  prove  his  in- 
nocence," I  answered  hotly.  "Meanwhile,  will  you  both 
agree  to  keep  the  matter  to  yourselves?" 


92  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Not  a  notion  as  to  methods  had  come  to  me.  I  was 
only  sure  of  my  boy,  and  that  sufficed. 

The  Marquis  and  the  Brother  exchanged  a  look  of 
veiled  significance  which  made  me  grow  hot  and  cold  in 
several  quick  successions. 

"This  is  more  than  I  dared  hope  for,"  the  Marquis 
said.  "You  apparently  hold  a  partial  confession.  In 
that  case,  you  should  deal  more  plainly  with  me."  Though 
he  was  consummately  courteous,  his  eyes  had  hardened. 

"Where  he  has  nothing  to  confess,  I  have  nothing  to 
learn  from  him,"  I  said.  "Others  will  supply  you  with 
proofs  in  his  favour.  I  know  the  boy  you  are  accusing; 
your  lightness  surprises  me,  Monsieur.  If  I  ask  for  dis- 
cretion, it's  only  that  the  culprit  may  not  escape." 

"One  week,"  he  mused.  "One  week,  during  which  you 
would  personally  conduct  an  inquiry  for  which,  I  believe, 
philosophical  researches  in  racial  movements  are  not  the 
surest  of  preparations,  M.  Aubret.  You  don't  mind 
my  saying  this?  I  fear  the  first  result  of  your  detective 
activities  would  be  the  irretrievable  disappearance  of  my 
bronzes." 

"Will  you  name  the  value  attached  to  them?"  I  de- 
manded. "If  it  be  within  my  means  to  offer  you  the 
cash  guarantee " 

"My  dear  sir!"  exclaimed  the  Marquis,  utterly  shocked. 
"Where  it  is  a  question  of  authentic  Louis  XV  bronze 
work,  with  the  original  gilding,  belonging  to  the  Chateau 
de  Vervillers " 

"And  bought  by  your  father  in  an  Italian  junk-shop," 
I  returned  impulsively. 

The  Marquis  observed  me  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and 
spoke  freezingly: 

"You  may,  if  you  please,  defend  a  boy  whom  you 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  93 

prefer  to  consider  innocent.  But  I  have  been  gravely 
wronged,  and  I  hold  proofs.  Unless  I  am  mistaken, 
there  is  fresh  evidence  in  the  house  at  this  very  moment." 

He  rang. 

"Has  the  apprentice  from  Badajeze's  returned?"  he 
asked  the  servant.  "Send  him  in." 

The  servant  having  gone,  he  addressed  me  once  more: 

"Before  further  repairs  should  be  done,  I  told  Bada- 
jeze,  two  pieces  must  be  cleaned.  A  risk;  but  I  was  send- 
ing those  to  help  find  the  others.  My  entire  series,  if 
robbed  of  two,  would  lose  half  the  value.  Now  that  you 
know  four  are  at  stake,  you  will  appreciate  my  desire 
for  prompt  action.  The  pieces  to  be  cleaned  were  taken 
by  young  Clermont  himself  to-day  at  twelve,  on  the  ex- 
press understanding  that  they  must  be  brought  back  at 
half -past  two." 

That  was  why  my  poor  Paul  had  passed  me  at  the 
door,  sending  me  his  gay,  familiar  nod. 

A  knock  came.  A  boy  entered.  Not  Paul.  He 
delivered  two  bits  of  delicate  bronze-work  into  the  Mar- 
quis's hand.  After  examining  the  metal,  the  Marquis 
dismissed  him  with  a  tip.  We  heard  the  steps  reced- 
ing. 

"These  are  mine — and  the  messenger  was  not  Clermont. 
The  evidence  is  more  conclusive  than  I  anticipated." 

"May  I  ask  what  your  next  move  will  be?"  My  voice 
was  unsteady. 

"The  police  shall  decide  for  me  this  afternoon." 

"You  have  waited  several  days:  wait  for  one  more," 
I  pleaded. 

"My  motives  for  haste  should  be  clear,  I  think.  Must 
I  add  that  I  am  acquainted  with  this  boy's  record  at 
Delligny's?" 


94  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Frere  Alexandre  looked  so  unhappy  that  I  knew  whence 
that  information  came. 

"He  was  totally  blameless,  as  any  truthful  witness  can 
establish,"  I  said.  "The  only  difference  between  his 
innocence  there  and  his  innocence  here  is,  that  even  at 
such  a  place  as  Delligny's  there  was  no  person  irresponsible 
enough  to  bring  an  unsubstantiated  charge." 

The  Marquis  held  up  his  hand: 

"You  can  no  longer  fail  to  appreciate,  Monsieur,  that 
my  chief  concern  is  to  avoid  painful  consequences  while 
recovering  objects  of  art  which  could  not  possibly  be 
replaced.  When  I  asked  you  to  do  me  the  pleasure  of 
coming  to-day,  I  wished  for  an  expression  of  your  opinion, 
but  I  also  had  a  definite  proposition  to  make.  You 
enjoy  the  boy's  confidence.  Get  full  avowals  from  him 
and  the  return  of  the  stolen  pieces.  Frere  Alexandre, 
and  you,  and  I,  and  the  unhappy  boy  himself,  shall  be 
the  only  ones  to  know.  Badajeze  shall  never  suspect 
why  this  apprentice  left  him.  For  of  course  we  must  send 
him  away  from  Verviller,  where  he  would  be  bound  to 
fall  again  in  evil  ways.  I  shall  see  that  he  is  properly 
taken  care  of,  and  educated  to  better  principles.  His 
parents  shall  know  just  enough  to  ensure  their  consent. — 
Will  you  consider  this?" 

"No." 

"You  may  be  condemning  him  to  prison." 

"  I  think  not.  For  I  shall  make  his  case  mine,  and  shall 
spend  my  last  franc,  if  necessary,  in  his  defence."  I  rose. 

"Let  us  hope  you  may  not  be  compelled  to  do  so.  My 
course  will  be  decided  upon  only  after  consulting  people 
competent  in  such  questions." 

With  most  exquisite  courtesy,  the  Marquis  saw  me  to 
his  door,  renewing  his  thanks  for  my  opinion,  and  all  but 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  95 

reopening  the  issue  of  racial  movements.  My  last  glimpse 
of  Frere  Alexandre  showed  him  palely,  mournfully  motion- 
less in  a  graceful,  gilt-limbed,  silk-swathed  arm-chair. 

IV 

MY  IDEA  was  to  see  Paul  at  once  in  his  workshop. 
Going  first  to  my  house,  I  took  a  padlock  from  a  cupboard 
door  and  tried  to  break  it.  The  thing  was  too  confound- 
edly well  made.  Next,  straining  upon  the  key  I  tried 
to  force  the  spring,  and  failed  conspicuously.  Then  throw- 
ing the  key  aside  I  put  the  padlock  in  my  pocket. 

Several  apprentices  were  at  the  work-table,  under  their 
master's  supervision,  when  I  entered.  No  sign  of  Paul. 
I  have  since  asked  myself  how  I  found  time  or  thought  to 
glance  towards  the  house-window.  Delectable  Mademoi- 
selle Odette  was  not  at  her  post. 

Addressing  M.  Badajeze,  I  told  a  story  of  a  lost  key. 

"Not  very  seriously  lost,"  he  observed.  "How  fortu- 
nate you  took  the  precaution  of  tying  it!" 

Indeed,  I  had  failed  to  notice  it  was  fastened  to  the 
padlock  by  a  string,  and  had  dangled  from  my  pocket 
all  this  while. 

"Er— yes,"  I  said.  "Would  you  try  it?  There's 
something  wrong." 

M.  Badajeze  snapped  it  again  and  again,  with  aggres- 
sive cheer. 

"Like  a  child  going  to  the  dentist,"  I  said.  "But  the 
pain  comes  back,  you  know.  Please  examine  it  at  your 
leisure,  and  do  whatever  may  be  necessary." 

"A  little  rust,  perhaps."  The  artistic  locksmith 
effected  the  cure  almost  before  finishing  the  diagnosis.  "I 
promise  there  will  be  no  more  complaints.  Only  a  sug- 
gestion of  oil  smeared  on  the  key  with  my  finger,  did  you 


96  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

notice?  The  trouble  which  careless  people  cause  me,  by 
pouring  big  drops  into  their  locks,  and  often  salad-oil, 
at  that!  Indescribable!"  He  was  fond  of  delivering 
such  homilies.  They  impressed  with  his  variety  of  in- 
formation, and  also  showed  he  was  not  proud. 

I  asked  what  I  owed  him. 

"Nothing,  Monsieur." 

"I  shall  remember  I  am  in  your  debt.  You  have  taken 
considerable  interest  in  a  young  friend  of  mine — your 
apprentice  Clermont.  He  is  giving  satisfaction,  I  hope?" 

"He  will  make  a  workman." 

"You  already  send  him  out  in  the  town?" 

"Not  often." 

"Yet  I  don't  see  him."  I  had  to  insist,  the  man  would 
give  me  no  clue. 

"His  mother  sent  for  him  unexpectedly,"  said  Aristide 
Badajeze,  leading  me  towards  the  door.  He  had  small 
time  to  waste  on  customers  who  did  not  discuss  art. 

The  news  of  Paul's  "unexpected"  call  preoccupied 
me.  I  knew  the  inferences  which  might  be  drawn. 

I  went  to  Delligny's  bicycle  shop  on  the  chance  of  iden- 
tifying Marcel  Lavenu  and  using  him  as  messenger.  He 
was  not  visible,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  buying  a  pneuma- 
tic pump,  the  first  thing  I  saw,  from  the  proprietor  in 
person.  Casting  about  for  means  to  reach  Marcel,  I 
lingered  a  few  minutes,  questioning;  by  good  fortune,  that 
pump  was  a  new  model.  Then  my  guardian  angel  or 
Paul's  brought  possible  consequences  in  a  vivid  flash 
before  me.  After  publicly  tampering  with  Aristide 
Badajeze,  here  I  was  at  Delligny's  after  young  Lavenu! 
I  paid  for  my  absurd  purchase,  and  fled. 

At  the  end  of  a  score  of  yards,  I  found  myself  suddenly 
held  up: 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  97 

"Monsieur!  Monsieur!  You  forgot  your  pump!" 
A  boy  had  been  despatched  after  me. 

"Oh,  thanks!"  I  said.  And  taking  it  grimly,  I  gave 
him  half  a  franc. 

"You  are  sure  you  know  how  to  use  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Because  if  you  want  me  to  explain " 

"If  necessary,  I  can  come  back,"  was  my  answer, 
delivered  curtly. 

The  boy,  black-eyed  with  a  merry  pink  face,  looked 
unnecessarily  grieved,  I  thought.  I  have  since  known 
that  he  was  none  other  than  Marcel  Lavenu  himself. 

Renouncing  further  ambition  as  a  detective,  I  went  to 
Paul's  house.  Luck  was  with  me;  he  opened  the  door, 
and  I  told  him  I  must  see  him  that  night. 

"Don't  fail,  Paul.     Whatever  may  happen,  don't  fail." 

"I  had  intended  to  come.  I  shall  not  fail."  His  eyes 
were  red,  his  cheeks  pale  and  drawn. 

In  my  study  once  more,  I  read  until  the  pages  swam 
before  me.  There  had,  indeed,  been  but  two  pages,  I 
believe;  two  solid  blocks  of  lettering  smeared  black,  with 
white  spaces  around  and  between  as  the  book  lay  open 
on  a  lectern.  For  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  say  what  the 
book  was.  The  binding  was  leather,  and  the  title  long ;  fine 
print,  with  few  paragraphs.  A  learned  book,  probably. 

Five  o'clock!  And  he  never  came  earlier  than  eight- 
fifteen.  Why,  in  the  name  of  all  that's  sane  or  sensible 
on  earth,  had  I  not  told  him  to  come  at  once?  He  could 
have  obeyed,  evidently.  My  constant  idea  since  leaving 
the  Marquis  had  been  that  I  must  see  the  boy  that  night. 
Having  to  devise  means  and  methods,  I  had  been  caught 
unaware  by  the  change  in  my  main  thought.  No  altering 
now;  what  harm  there  might  be,  was  done. 


98          THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

His  appearance,  so  changed  since  noon ;  his  words  about 
intending  to  come;  the  fact  he  had  escaped  from  the  shop 
and  let  another  boy  go  on  his  errand  to  the  chateau; — 
weighed  upon  me.  For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  me 
that  he  might,  in  some  silly,  innocent  way,  have  found 
himself  compromised,  and  not  known  what  to  do. 

Intolerable  hours  passed.  Those  two  ink-blurred 
pages  on  the  lectern  afforded  no  relief.  And  all  objects 
near  me  brought  useless  thoughts  of  Paul.  If  I  tried 
looking  from  my  window,  I  remembered  him  in  his  art- 
less days;  if  I  rested  idle  within  my  room,  each  thing 
served  to  recall  some  phrase  or  gesture. 

Entering  my  study,  that  night,  Paul  closed  the  door 
and  stood  for  some  moments,  pale  and  rigid.  Presently 
he  said: 

"The  police  came  to  our  house  to-day." 

My  heart  felt  caught  in  a  steel  net  pressing  it  close 
from  all  sides,  while  a  mailed  hand  clutched  at  my  throat. 

"They  inspected  our  rooms  and  measured  them,"  he 
went  on.  "Did  they  come  here  too?  They  will,  prob- 
ably. To  find  out  how  many  soldiers  can  be  quartered 
in  each  house,  if  mobilisation  is  ordered." 

The  hand  released  me,  the  steel  net  burst,  and  the 
wild,  avenging  beats  of  my  heart  stifled  me. 

"What— what  has  that  got  to— to  do  with "  I 

gasped.  Lucidity  pierced  on  one  point  alone:  his  intense 
gravity  had  not  left  him.  Indeed,  he  was  so  preoccu- 
pied as  scarcely  to  notice  my  condition. 

"Mother  thought  the  war  had  already  begun,"  Paul 
went  on.  "There's  been  so  much  talk  about  it,  you  see. 
She  was  too  frightened  to  ask  what  it  meant,  while  they 
were  there,  or  to  understand  what  they  told  her;  and 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  99 

she  fainted  when  they  had  left.  A  neighbour  heard  her 
scream,  and  went  over,  and  then  ran  to  get  me.  Father 
had  gone  off  for  the  day.  When  I  got  home,  she  was  still 
unconscious.  She  wasn't  alone  any  more,  though.  Or  per- 
haps— yes,  she  was  alone.  For  the — the  baby  was  dead." 

He  waited  for  me  to  speak.  I  could  not.  He  began 
again : 

"They  hadn't  warned  me  I  was  to  have  a  brother — 
or  sister.  When  father  came,  I  met  him  at  the  door,  and 
told  him.  He  said  only,  'It  is  well.'  The  baby's  death, 
I  suppose.  She  made  him  marry  her  so  the  child  should 
be  legitimate.  And  I  don't  think  it  at  all  well.  There's 
no  baby  to  provide  for;  and  there  mayn't  be  any  war,  so 
the  allowance  as  a  soldier's  wife  doesn't  matter.  Yet 
they  are  married  and  nothing  can  change  that." 

His  resentment  against  this  superfluous  marriage  was 
pathetic  in  its  primitive  non-morality.  I  ventured  a 
word  about  the  laws  of  organised  society.  Wildly,  he 
burst  out  in  a  storm  of  despair: 

"But  can't  you  understand — they  treat  me,  now,  as  if 
/  were  illegitimate!  I  can't  be — can  I? — just  because 
father  married  his  mistress?  My  mother  was  married  to 
him,  and  long  before  I  was  born;  I  know,  by  my  birth 
certificate;  and  she  brought  him  a  dot,  which  he  spent. 
When  father  ran  off  with — with  the  woman  who  makes 
me  call  her  mother,  he  took  me  too,  because  he  would  have 
his  son,  he  said.  I  wasn't  two  years  old,  and  don't 
remember  clearly.  I  know  I  hadn't  ever  cried  so  much, 
nor  had  so  many  chocolates  given  me;  I  was  very  sick. 
That's  all  I  know.  But  I've  heard  say  she  wouldn't 
divorce  father,  and  didn't  know  how  to  earn  money, 
and  died — very  poor." 

"You  don't  mean  she " 


100         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

He  did  not  heed  me: 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  mother's  position  any 
more,  so  she's  making  up  for  lost  time,  I  suppose.  And 
father's  position  has  changed,  too.  But  I  can't  under- 
stand what  has  gone  wrong  with  my  position.  I  never 
was  her  son,  and  now  I  don't  seem  to  be  his,  any  longer. 
Perhaps  I  belong  only  to  my  real  mother,  and  when  she 
died  she  didn't  have  a  husband.  Are  you  sure  I  haven't 
become  illegitimate?" 

"My  dear  boy,  nothing  of  the  kind  can  affect  you,"  I 
said.  "This  is  a  civilised  country  with  established  laws 
anybody  can  verify." 

"She  doesn't  know  it,  then."  His  head  drooped; 
his  hands  lay  listlessly  beside  him. 

The  events  of  the  afternoon  flashed  before  me.  Fresh 
from  such  a  tragedy  as  this,  worse  hung  over  him,  was 
doubtless  in  the  act  of  befalling.  Nor  would  a  faint 
intimation  of  the  trouble  suffice;  I  had  not  the  right  to 
spare  him. 

I  found  myself  in  the  middle  of  it,  somehow,  having 
had  enough  sense  to  present  the  story  impersonally. 

Paul  listened  without  showing  much  surprise,  but  re- 
vealing no  emotion  at  all. 

"M.  Badajeze  had  those  copies;  I  have  seen  them," 
he  observed,  when  I  finished.  "I  went  several  times  to 
the  chateau.  The  footman  says  the  Marquis  doesn't 
like  M.  Badajeze  to  go  there  because  he's  a  Socialist. 
But  other  people  say  he  can't  be  a  Socialist,  he's  too  broad 
in  his  views.  M.  Badajeze  told  us  apprentices  that  the 
Marquis  would  not  disturb  him  because  he  is  such  a  great 
artist!"  Paul  smiled.  Then  his  face  darkened:  "I  was 
to  have  gone  back  to-day,  after  seeing  you  there.  Wish 
I  had.  But  I  was  called  home  instead." 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         101 

No  idea  that  he  might  in  any  way  be  concerned  had  yet 
dawned  on  him.  I,  cowardly,  fenced  with  the  issue: 

"Do  you  suspect  M.  Badajeze?" 

"Oh,  no!     Impossible!"  he  exclaimed,  utterly  shocked. 

"Then— whom?" 

"Andre  Manadan." 

"On  general  principles,  or  for  specific  reasons?" 

"Both." 

"Tell  me  what  happened."  But  instead  of  letting  him 
do  so,  as  he  undoubtedly  would,  thereby  sparing  an  infin- 
ity of  pain,  I  blunderingly  admonished  him:  "You  will 
need  proofs  before  bringing  an  accusation,  you  know." 

"Accusation!"  He  stared  blankly.  "I'm  not  going 
to  accuse  anybody!" 

I  tried  to  retrieve  my  fault: 

"Tell  me  what  happened." 

"Not  if  it  is  to  get  a  comrade  into  trouble." 

"Surely,  you  don't  refuse  to  tell  me?"  I  urged.  "You 
have  never  yet  refused  me  anything,  Paul." 

"I  can't  get  a  comrade  into  trouble." 

Then,  I  broke  down. 

"Paul,  Paul,  can't  you  understand?  You  have  been 
going  there  by  special  arrangement — you  received  antique 
bronzes  and  brought  back  imitations — you  are  the  one  who 
will  be  defamed  and  disgraced,  unless  another  person  can 
be  proved  guilty!" 

He  stared  at  me  from  a  face  as  cold  and  fixed  and  colour- 
less as  dull  stone.  I  waited  for  the  desperate  outburst 
which  must  answer  me  when  he  should  be  able  to  speak. 
But  his  words  came,  slow  and  hushed: 

"I  have  done  nothing." 

"You  must  prove  that." 

"I  shall  try.     But  I  won't  betray  a  comrade." 


102         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Had  he  been  less  quiet,  I  might  have  hoped. 

"Don't  betray  me,  then,"  I  said.  He  quivered,  and 
his  eyes  widened.  Any  change  in  him  was  welcome.  I 
went  on:  "This  is  my  affair  as  well  as  yours.  I  have  told 
the  Marquis  de  Vervillers  so.  You  certainly  owe  me 
as  much  comradeship  as  to  a  little  apprentice.  So  answer 
my  questions,  at  least.  How  long  have  you  known  some- 
thing was  wrong?" 

"Only  now.  I'm  not  a  workman,  and  I  didn't  notice 
the  pieces  save  for  their  design.  While  you  were  speak- 
ing, I  remembered  they  had  felt  rather  different  when  I 
took  them  back  to  the  chateau." 

"Do  you  know  who  went  in  your  stead,  to-day?" 

"No." 

"Were  any  of  the  apprentices  particularly  interested 
in  the  bronzes?" 

"  Yes.  M.  Badajeze  brought  his  copies  out  and  showed 
them  to  us  all  when  he  began  the  restorations;  he  boasted 
of  his  work,  declaring  only  an  expert  could  tell  the  differ- 
ence. He  said  it  was  all  prejudice  and  snobbishness, 
that  the  old  ones  should  be  worth  a  fortune,  and  his  only 
a  few  louis." 

"And  one  boy  especially "  I  prompted. 

"I  don't  know;  my  eyes  were  all  for  the  bronzes." 

"Yet  you  may  have  noticed  something — at  some  mo- 
ment?" 

"Nothing  I  could  be  absolutely  sure  of.  And  I  couldn't 
be  a  traitor,  anyhow,"  he  added  doggedly. 

"Do  you  realise  that  you  may  be  sending  yourself  to 
prison?"  I  groaned. 

His  muscles  stiffened  as  if  frozen,  and  then  relaxed  quite 
limply  under  the  tight-fitting  apprentice  suit.  With 
arms  crossed  upon  his  knees,  he  bowed  his  head. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         103 

We  seemed  to  be  not  here  in  my  study  at  night,  but 
one  afternoon,  on  the  hill  above  Verviller;  the  world  had 
gone  back  in  its  course;  Paul  had  sought  me  out  in  my 
retreat  to  tell  me  of  his  school,  and  his  father,  and  his 
desperate  resolve;  in  my  ears  the  words  rang:  "I  would 
rather  be  killed  than  kill  poor  people." 

Like  an  echo  of  those  words,  a  veiled,  scarcely  audible 
whisper  reached  me: 

"It's  better  to  go  to  prison  than  send  a  comrade 
there." 


SILENCE — a  mighty  silence  broken  only  by  the  constant 
rustling  which  his  own  hands  caused,  and  the  occasional 
ring  of  heels  upon  distant  stone.  No  joy,  no  colour,  no 
relief  about  him,  as  he  worked;  no  tree-shaded  market- 
place with  its  busy  crowd;  no  light-hearted  apprentices 
to  be  viewed  with  admiration  or  dismay;  no  Aristide 
Badajeze  to  stop  in  the  midst  of  reprimands  and  dis- 
cuss art-principles;  no  clatter  of  hammers,  no  clicking 
of  metals,  no  whining  of  files.  Paul  was  reduced  to 
making  lamp-shades;  one  after  another,  always  the  same 
model,  the  same  wires,  the  same  paper  of  unchanging 
hues;  making  lamp-shades  from  morning  until  night, 
quite  alone — and  in  silence. 

But  he  could  think.  With  no  one  to  see  or  to  hear, 
and  with  fingers  repeating  as  of  themselves  the  gestures 
of  his  monotonous  task,  Paul  could  think.  His  thoughts 
ran  upon  scenes  which  were  still  very  near  to  him.  So 
near  as  to  be  real,  and  to  need  no  recalling.  Then  why 
harp  upon  it  all?  Perhaps  because  of  the  satiety  brought 
by  repetition. 

There  were  five  of  these  scenes;  some  vivid,   some 


104         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

shrouded;  some  seared  into  his  eyes,  others  drumming 
endlessly  in  his  ears.     Five  scenes — all  real. 


He  was  in  the  streets  of  Verviller,  at  night. 

The  windows  of  the  house  he  had  just  left  were  dark 
patches  in  the  masonry,  save  for  one — the  window  to 
which  he  had  so  often  raised  his  boyish  eyes.  He  seemed 
to  ask  its  light  for  counsel  now,  as  he  might  have  done 
of  old;  but  no  answer  came  or  could  come.  In  spite  of 
M.  Aubret's  emotion,  Paul  knew  there  could  be  nothing 
heroic,  no  element  of  self-sacrifice  about  the  attitude  he 
had  taken.  The  problem  before  him  was  very  simple, 
as  far  as  others  might  be  concerned;  complexity  existed 
only  for  himself.  He  must  get  out  of  trouble  somehow; 
but  to  do  this,  he  must  perceive  the  trouble  clearly,  and 
he  could  not.  M.  Aubret  had  promised  all  possible  help 
while  agreeing  to  let  Paul  act  first,  and  had  given  him  a 
little  money  in  case  of  emergencies.  But  M.  Aubret  was 
a  gentleman;  and  there  were  many  things  about  a  work- 
ingman's  life  which  gentlemen  never  understood,  how- 
ever nice  they  might  be.  So  Paul  turned  away  from 
the  house  in  the  rue  du  Port,  having  learned  of  a  danger  but 
not  of  fair  means  for  freeing  himself. 

The  chateau  chimneys  rose  above  the  tall,  straight- 
topped  walls  like  heads  of  slim  pines  over  a  level  of  massive 
oaks,  sharpcut  against  a  half-lighted  sky  filled  with 
stars.  In  his  first  glimpse  of  Verviller,  this  chdteau  had 
been  one  of  the  objects  on  which  his  attention  had  rested, 
suggestive  of  all  he  must  abhor.  Many  of  the  great 
windows  shone  brightly;  the  grand  salons,  of  dismal 
memory,  glowered  blindly  among  them.  If  he  could  speak 
to  the  Marquis,  and  explain,  entreat!  But  he  would  not 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          105 

dare  go  in;  would  not  be  admitted  if  he  tried.  Even 
though  the  Marquis  should  happen  to  come  out,  he  was 
not  sure  of  the  courage  to  accost  him.  Yet  he  waited 
nearly  an  hour,  with  rare  shiftings  of  his  weight  from 
one  foot  to  the  other,  and  a  periodic  quick  clasping  of 
his  hands,  but  no  further  movement.  Then — "Why 
should  he  listen  to  me?"  Paul  asked  himself.  "I  am 
made  to  live  in  a  wash-house  and  work  as  an  apprentice." 
The  reflection  contained  no  bitterness.  It  was  a  simple 
statement  of  fact. 

The  four-roomed  cottage  where  his  parents  and  he  lived 
seemed  remote  and  unfamiliar.  He  looked  on  it,  afraid 
to  approach.  An  open-hearted  talk  with  his  father  might 
help;  but  his  mother  would  hear.  Lights  burned  in  the 
kitchen  and  in  the  ground-floor  bedroom;  she  must  be 
awake,  and  he  reading  the  paper  or  asleep  over  it.  Paul 
must  say  good-night;  but,  if  father  were  indeed  asleep, 
he  would  not  wake  him. 

Paul  always  began  with  the  scene  in  the  dark  streets 
before  those  three  houses.  That  was  not  when  circum- 
stances had  overwhelmed  him.  But  each  detail  had 
played  a  part  he  could  little  suspect. 

Bending  over  the  pile  of  lamp-shades,  he  counted  them, 
The  number  was  what  it  should  be;  and  if  his  thoughts 
had  not  stopped,  he  would  not  have  felt  the  stiffness  of 
his  legs,  the  aching  of  his  back,  the  numbness  of  his  hands. 
Quickly,  to  think  again — to  think — to  think ! 

ii 

He  was  in  the  workshop,  next  morning.  Nothing  had 
changed,  though  the  air  might  have  been  rather  cooler 
than  usual;  he  shivered  once  or  twice  as  he  took  down  the 


106         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

shutters  with  Andre  Manadan.  They  two  had  this  duty 
to  perform,  and  so  always  arrived  first.  Paul  had  come 
considerably  before  half-past  six,  this  morning.  He 
had  not  slept  well.  But  with  the  bright,  crisp  sunshine  and 
the  normal  look  of  things,  his  problem  had  become  so  illu- 
sive that  it  could  scarcely  have  been  said  to  preoccupy  him. 

Sleeplessness  had  not  been  his  reason  for  coming  early. 
He  wanted  to  take  down  the  shutters  alone,  and  search 
in  one  or  two  hiding-places  he  knew,  provided  M.  Bada- 
jeze  retired  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour  after  opening 
the  door,  as  usual.  But  Andre  Manadan,  impelled  by 
secret  motives,  had  arrived  before  Paul,  who  was  defeated 
in  the  only  project  he  had  been  able  to  form.  For  some 
moments,  Paul  drew  away  from  Andre  with  a  repulsion 
deeper  than  ever — the  sole  evident  change  in  the  entire 
situation.  Then  his  curiosity  was  roused  by  noticing 
that  the  plausible  little  wretch,  no  longer  insinuating  nor 
aggressive,  had  become  suspicious  and  uneasy.  The 
thought  of  questioning  Andre  as  possible  means  for  reach- 
ing the  truth,  through  a  thicket  of  falsehoods,  now  oc- 
curred to  him. 

"Was  it  you  they  sent  to  the  chateau  yesterday?" 
Paul  asked. 

"What's  that  to  you?"  Andre  returned,  sulking. 

"I'll  answer  your  question  when  you  have  answered 
mine." 

"And  I'll  mind  my  business  when  you  mind  yours." 

"There  have  been  things  stolen  at  the  chdteau." 
Paul  had  decided  on  direct  attack. 

"Well,  you  were  there  at  noon."  Andre  had  not  tried 
to  feign  surprise. 

"You  went  later,  when  I  was  to  have  gone." 

"Since  you  knew,  why  did  you  ask?" 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          107 

"I  didn't  know,  until  you  gave  yourself  away.  It's 
you,  the  thief." 

They  had  spoken  rapidly,  in  whispers.  As  Paul  brought 
the  charge  confirmed  only  by  Andre's  lack  of  surprise, 
the  death-like  face  with  its  yellowed  eyes  drew  closer,  and 
the  voice  snarled  raspingly: 

"Who  are  you  to  talk  of  thieves?  You  were  caught 
with  me  in  the  Delligny  affair.  I  say  so,  and  you  can't 
prove  the  contrary." 

"If  you  ever  dare  say  anything  like  that "  Paul 

tried  to  control  himself,  but  was  boiling,  seething. 

"We've  stolen  together  once,  and  if  we're  in  for  it 
now " 

Andre  got  no  further.  Paul's  hands  had  flown  out 
before  he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  and  the  hollow  spanks 
of  a  double  slap  resounded  in  the  quiet  workshop,  fol- 
lovred  by  a  piercing  shriek  and  blatant  blubbering. 

"  If  we're  in  for  it  now — if  we ' ' 

The  words  whirled  round  and  round  in  Paul's  brain. 
Why  had  he  struck  before  listening?  For  M.  Badajeze  was 
upon  them,  bouncing  out  of  the  house  while  Mademoiselle 
Odette  stopped  in  the  doorway,  scared  and  scandalised. 

"What's  this?  Fighting  on  my  premises?  A  big  boy 
a  saulting  a  little  one!"  cried  out  M.  Badajeze.  "Do 
you  take  my  workshop  for  a  waggoners'  eating-house?" 

"Oh,  it's  little  Andre!  Is  he  hurt?  Do  bring  him 
to  me,  papa!"  wailed  Mademoiselle  Odette.  "Don't 
leave  him  alone  with  that  boy !  It's  the  second  time  Paul 
has  attacked  Andre!" 

"I  never  attacked  him  before!  I  only  swore  at  him!" 
Paul  protested  stormily.  "You  can't  imagine  all  I  have 
had  to  put  up  with!" 

"If  you  were  larger,  you  might  defend  yourself,"  sneered 


108         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

M.  Badajeze.  "Here,  take  the  boy  Manadan,  Odette; 
see  if  he  is  hurt.  As  for  yourself,  young  man,  let  me 
ever  catch  you  at  such  games  again,  and  either  your  father 
shall  thrash  you  or  I  am  capable  of  doing  it  myself!" 

Paul  had  subsided.  He  accepted  the  rebuff  with  bowed 
head  and  crimson  face.  He  had  remembered  that  no 
explanation  was  possible.  For  he  could  not  say  Andre 
had  accused  him  of  complicity  in  two  thefts.  Mademoi- 
selle Odette  put  her  arm  round  Paul's  "victim"  and  led 
him  away;  by  some  mysterious  process  he  was  suffering 
acutely  in  his  chest  and  left  knee.  Within  the  house, 
Paul  heard  the  farce  continue.  Manadan  wept  and  com- 
plained by  turns ;  it  was  as  if  he  had  been  kicked  up  to  the 
ceiling,  and  then  laid  on  the  anvil  and  stuck  with  files,  to 
judge  by  the  commotion  which  he  and  his  sympathisers 
made.  Mademoiselle  Odette  recommended  to  her  father, 
who  had  rejoined  them,  that  the  poor,  maltreated  lad  be 
allowed  to  go  home.  M.  Badajeze  agreed;  he  had  small 
liking  for  illness,  but  what  he  abhorred  most  was  an  idle, 
snivelling  boy. 

With  rage  in  his  heart,  and  fear  at  his  throat — for  he 
had  had  leisure  to  ponder  over  his  graver  difficulties — 
Paul  bent  at  the  table,  polishing  a  key  which  was  his 
allotted  first  task  of  the  morning. 

There  was  a  sound  of  stealthy  rummaging  in  a  corner. 
Footsteps  crept  one  way  and  another.  "Hunting  for  his 
things,"  Paul  thought,  not  deigning  to  look  round.  Sud- 
denly he  was  struck  in  the  curve  of  the  back,  full  upon  the 
spine,  and  his  coat  was  jerked  from  his  left  shoulder.  Even 
a  weak  fist  can  cause  sharp  pain  under  such  conditions; 
but  from  the  traces  noted  afterwards,  and  interpreted 
differently,  it  became  evident  at  least  to  Paul  that  a  stick 
or  a  bar  had  been  used. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         109 

As  Paul,  suffering  cruelly,  tried  to  straighten  up,  Andre 
shot  out  through  the  front  door.  Neither  M.  Badajeze 
nor  Mademoiselle  Odette  was  visible. 

"Hello — what's  up?  What's  he  got  now?"  voices  cried 
in  several  tones.  The  other  apprentices  had  come  in  from 
the  Place  du  Vieux  Marche. 

Paul  swayed  from  side  to  side,  clinging  to  the  edge  of 
the  work-table  and  repressing  all  sounds  save  low  moans. 

"Struck  his  back  against  the  table!"  "Dropped  his 
key  and  stooped  to  pick  it  up!"  "Happened  to  me,  once 
— hurts  dreadfully!"  the  apprentices  exclaimed. 

"Serves  him  right,"  M.  Badajeze  pronounced,  entering. 
"Take  that  key  and  finish  it,  Ernest.  I'll  give  him 
massage  for  his  injured  back."  And  he  ordered  Paul  to 
the  bellows,  while  he  put  some  iron  on  the  forge. 

Dizzy  from  pain  and  nervous  shock,  and  with  thoughts 
hopelessly  blurred  in  his  heavy  head,  Paul  pulled  at  the  bel- 
lows, keeping  his  position,  as  he  stooped  and  rose,  thanks  to 
the  big  handles  on  which  he  hung  blindly.  Several  times  he 
fancied  himself  losing  consciousness,  but  stuck  to  the  task. 

There  must  have  been  steps  which  Paul  had  failed  to 
hear;  for  M.  Badajeze  dropped  the  iron-work,  and  spoke  in 
his  most  urbane  tone: 

"Ah,  M.  le  Marquis!  Good-morning.  These  are 
early  hours  for  you.  Shall  we  go  into  my  parlour  to  talk, 
or  do  you  enjoy  this  atmosphere  of  art?" 

"Your  parlour,  if  you  please,"  said  the  Marquis  de 
Vervillers. 

Releasing  the  handles,  and  steadying  himself  against 
the  wall,  Paul  looked  for  something — he  was  not  sure 
what.  Perhaps  that  key,  which  Ernest  had  long  since 
finished.  A  moment  later,  he  was  sitting  on  the  ground 
in  a  heap.  No  one  observed  him.  The  compagnon 


110         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

had  gone  out  with  one  of  the  boys,  and  the  others  were 
very  busy  working  or  trifling.  Principally  the  latter, 
since  M.  Badajeze  and  Mademoiselle  Odette  were  both 
absent.  Perhaps  Paul  fainted;  at  all  events  he  had  not 
moved  again,  and  some  time  must  have  elapsed,  when 
M.  Badajeze  yelled  thunderously : 
"PAUL  CLERMONT!" 

Paul  always  stopped  abruptly  there.  This  scene  ran 
into  the  next.  Yet  he  ended  it  when  he  heard  his  name 
called,  and,  stumbling  to  his  feet,  reeled  towards  the 
parlour  and  a  fate  which  even  then  he  did  not  conceive. 

His  eyes  left  the  lamp-shades  to  seek  the  small  window 
high  above  his  head.  The  hour  had  nearly  come  for  a  ray 
of  sun  to  shine  through.  Every  day  he  watched,  patiently, 
for  that  ray  to  visit  him.  It  brought  a  feeling  almost 
as  if  the  sun  itself  had  peeped  in.  When  the  weather 
was  fair,  he  saw  the  sun  as  he  walked  in  the  yard.  But  the 
thought  that  it  came  to  him  in  his  room — almost — was 
wonderfully  cheering. 

in 

He  was  in  M.  Badajeze's  parlour.  Not  the  din- 
ing-room which  opened  into  the  shop;  M.  Badajeze  had 
met  him  there,  and  caught  him  by  one  ear,  and  drawn 
him  on,  through  a  tiny  hall,  into  the  parlour,  where 
there  were  curtains  and  a  carpet  and  like  luxuries.  The 
Marquis  stood  near  a  window,  very  erect,  superbly  elegant, 
and  unapproachably  dignified. 

"Persuasion,  not  violence,  M.  Badajeze,"  the  Marquis 
commanded.  "And  remember  my  two  chief  objects." 

"Kindness  would  be  wasted  on  this,"  growled  the 
artistic  locksmith,  pushing  the  boy  from  him  an  instant 
before  releasing  the  captive  ear. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          111 

"Let  me  speak  first,"  the  Marquis  said.  "I  want  you 
to  tell  me,  young  man,  if  you  know  why  I  am  here." 

Paul  started  to  say  Yes.  Of  course  he  knew,  thanks  to 
M.  Aubret's  warning.  But  the  admission  might  com- 
promise him.  He  hung  his  head  and  did  not  speak. 

"Will  you  answer,  unhappy  good-for-nothing?"  roared 
M.  Badajeze. 

"You  would  do  better  to  be  frank  with  me,"  the  Mar- 
quis continued,  his  tone  developing  a  tinge  of  severity. 
"I  shall  be  indulgent  if  your  attitude  makes  this  possible. 
Come !  Do  you  acknowledge  knowing  what  has  happened 
at  the  chateau?" 

Paul  thought:  "He  asks  me  to  be  frank,  and  he  is 
right."  Looking  up,  he  said : 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"A  confession!  A  full  confession!  Cursed  be  the 
hour  when  I  admitted  such  a  villain  into  my  establish- 
ment!" howled  the  locksmith,  clapping  his  huge  red  hands 
to  his  round  bald  head. 

"Leave  him  alone,  M.  Badajeze. — If  you  restore  my 
property,  it  will  make  a  vast  difference  for  you,"  the 
Marquis  went  on. 

Paul  spoke  slowly  and  waveringly: 

"You  think  I  stole  your  bronzes.  I  didn't.  I  don't 
know  where  they  are.  I  don't  know  anything,  except 
what  M.  Aubret  told  me.  All  I  did  was  to  put  in  place 
the  bronzes  M.  Badajeze  gave  me." 

A  scream  like  that  of  a  wounded  beast  escaped  the 
artistic  locksmith.  When  fury  allowed  him  to  speak, 
he  caught  Paul  by  his  coat : 

"What,  miserable  one!    You  would  accuse  me?" 

Something  fell  from  Paul's  pocket  with  a  metallic 
ring. 


112         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"But — here  we  have  it!"  cried  M.  Badajeze.  "Caught 
with  the  goods,  M.  le  Marquis!  Caught  with  the  goods!" 

It  was,  indeed,  a  dainty  bit  of  Louis  XV  bronze-work, 
all  roses  and  love-knots,  as  applied  to  mirrors  in  Pompa- 
dour days  of  amorous  rhapsodies. 

The  Marquis  took  it  from  the  trembling  fingers  of  M. 
Badajeze. 

"Yes.  My  original.  Admirably  restored,  but  I  can 
identify  the  work  by  the  touch  and  the  gilding.  Excel- 
lently done."  The  amateur  had  forgotten  Paul.  He 
resumed:  "We  must  have  him  searched.  Perhaps  the 
other " 

"No  time  like  the  present,  in  dealing  with  such  char- 
acters," said  the  locksmith.  "If  you  move,  little  thief, 
I'll  flatten  you  against  the  wall  with  my  two  fists,  and  then 
tie  you  up  like  a  parcel  for  shipment  to  China!" 

"Commit  no  irregularity,"  the  Marquis  admonished. 

"Has  he  not  robbed  a  client  of  mine  and  in  my  own 
establishment?  Can  I  let  him  escape  with  the  spoils?" 
the  artistic  locksmith  almost  sobbed.  "No,  worse  luck! 
His  pockets  are  empty,  save  for  this  handkerchief  and  a 
folding  ruler  and  two  or  three  coppers.  But — what  is 
this  in  his  purse? — Ten  francs  in  gold!" 

Since  the  moment  when  the  mirror-piece  had  fallen, 
Paul  had  stood  dumb  and  inanimate.  He  did  not  know 
how  it  came  there.  What  could  he  say?  And  no  one 
asked  him  to  say  anything.  Now  they  wanted  to  take  his 
money — the  money  given  him  against  emergencies — 

"It's  mine!"  he  cried. 

"  Yours?  You  never  came  by  this  honestly!"  Aristide 
Badajeze  turned  to  the  Marquis:  "The  boy  is  allowed 
no  money.  His  father  has  told  me  so.  He  sold  your 
other  bronze  for  ten  francs.  We  have  caught  him  doubly. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         113 

With  your  permission,  M.  le  Marquis,  I  shall  send  for  the 
police." 

"M.  Aubret  gave  me  the  money  last  night — go  ask 
him,"  Paul  said  thickly.  He  could  not  control  his  voice, 
and  could  scarcely  hear  it,  for  the  surging  blood  in  his 
head.  "As  for  the  bronze,  I  don't  know  how  it  came 
in  my  pocket."  He  made  a  despairing  gesture,  which 
brought  on  more  acutely  the  pain  in  his  back.  His  coat, 
partly  wrenched  off  by  M.  Badajeze  in  the  course  of  the 
search,  dragged  on  his  shoulder,  as  when  he  had  been 
injured. 

But  this  explained  everything  to  him.  Andre  Manadan 
had  struck  him  to  slip  the  thing  in  his  pocket,  after  rooting 
it  out  from  some  corner. 

"Yes!"  Paul  exclaimed.     "I  know  how  it  came  there!" 

"Tell  me,  then,"  said  the  Marquis. 

The  impulse  was  already  dead.  Had  he  not  said  he 
would  go  to  prison  rather  than  send  a  comrade  there? 
It  was  true  he  had  not  realised  what  all  this  meant.  None 
the  less  he  was  pledged. 

"Somebody — somebody  must  have  put  it  there,"  Paul 
murmured. 

The  Marquis  drew  a  step  nearer: 

"Return  that  other  bronze  to  me,  and  I  shall  spare  you 
as  far  as  possible.  I  give  you  my  word." 

"I  can't  return  what  I  have  never  had,"  Paul  said 
miserably. 

"A  difficult  case,"  the  Marquis  sighed. 

"Not  if  handled  with  sufficient  energy,  M.  le  Marquis," 
the  locksmith  retorted.  "I  promise  you  I  know  how  to 
treat  young  criminals." 

A  voice  seemed  to  speak  within  Paul.  As  if  a  friend 
whispered  close  to  his  ear,  saying:  "Appeal  to  the  Mar- 


114         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

quis's  humanity.     Speak  out  from  your  heart — let  him 
understand  what  this  means  to  you." 

The  words  he  uttered  could  not  have  been  very  con- 
vincing. He  got  badly  tangled,  avoiding  accusations 
against  Manadan.  But  in  that  maze  of  vague,  peculiar 
evidence,  the  Marquis  must  have  seen  glimmerings  of 
truth.  For  he  said : 

"This  affair  is  to  go  no  further.  I  shall  trust  to  luck 
for  the  recovery  of  my  bronze." 

"Then  I  take  up  the  case  where  you  abandon  it!" 
declared  the  artistic  locksmith.  "  It  shall  not  be  said  that 
an  apprentice  of  Aristide  Badajeze  can  steal  with  im- 
punity. If  the  nobility  grows  lax  in  its  ideas  of  public 
morals,  the  world  of  art  is  still  their  bulwark.  I  presume 
that  at  least  M.  le  Marquis  de  Vervillers  will  not  deny  me 
his  testimony?" 

"Should  this  be  brought  before  the  public,  I  must  sup- 
port law  and  order,"  the  Marquis  said  sadly.  "You 
will  reflect  before  you  act,  I  hope;  and  if  you  wish  to 
consult  with  me,  I  am  at  your  disposal." 

He  put  the  bronze  in  his  pocket. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  leave  that  with  me,"  said  M.  Bada- 
jeze. "It  is  safe  in  my  hands — provided  you  don't  again 
order  me  to  trust  it  to  some  one  else.  You  will  be  kind 
enough  to  recall,  M.  le  Marquis,  that  you  forbade  me  to 
come  with  my  work,  and  instructed  me  to  send  this  very 
boy  who  robbed  you." 

"Take  the  bronze."  The  Marquis  handed  it  to  him 
without  looking;  he  turned  to  Paul:  "Young  man,  you 
may  go. — I  had  him  called,  M.  Badajeze.  Let  him  go." 

As  the  Marquis  finished,  Paul  drew  himself  together 
and  bolted  from  the  parlour — across  the  dining-room — 
through  the  workshop — out  into  the  street. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         115 

Paul  left  his  task  for  a  moment,  to  take  up  an  earthen- 
ware jug  which  stood  near  the  bed.  His  throat  always  got 
dry,  at  the  end  of  this  scene. 

On  his  bench  once  more,  he  counted  the  lamp-shades. 
He  was  ahead  of  the  required  number.  It  did  him  good 
to  rehearse  all  this;  it  kept  him  thinking,  and  helped  his 
fingers  to  go  rapidly. 

IV 

He  was  in  the  streets,  but  by  day — running  In  the 
streets  of  Verviller.  Apprentice-fashion,  he  had  worn  his 
cap  when  called  from  the  workshop;  and,  terrified  beyond 
thinking,  had  not  taken  it  off.  Nobody  noticed  it  in  the 
house;  and  because  of  it,  nobody  noticed  him  as  he  ran. 

Panting,  yet  ice-cold,  he  reached  the  house  in  the  rue  du 
Port.  A  stranger  opened  the  door.  What  did  he  want? 
Speak  to  M.  Aubret? 

"It  will  be  many  a  day  before  any  one  speaks  to  him. 
Picked  up  unconscious  in  the  night.  At  his  age " 

Clinging  to  walls  and  halting  at  all  street-corners,  ex- 
hausted, his  courage  gone,  his  resistance  destroyed,  his 
back  seeming  broken  in  two,  Paul  reached  home.  His 
father  was  there,  with  M.  Badajeze;  his  mother  screamed 
out  from  her  bedroom  beyond  the  narrow  hall.  They  had 
heard  the  story,  then.  As  Paul  entered,  his  father  seized 
him  by  the  collar  of  his  drill  jacket,  holding  him  off  at 
arm's  length. 

"It  is  I  who  shall  have  him  boxed  up,  before  he  dis- 
graces my  name  further!"  cried  the  wasted  man,  to  whom 
righteous  anger  had  lent  physical  strength  and  mental 
resolution.  "  That  my  son?  I  disown  him!" 

And  he  pushed  the  boy  from  him. 

Paul  rolled  limply  into  a  corner  and  stayed  there, 
motionless. 


116         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  seated  on  a  bundle  of 
rags  at  the  gate  of  a  hovel  from  which  he  had  been  turned, 
a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Any  who  had  heeded 
his  lips  would  have  caught  a  whisper — 

"  In  the  offal !    Cast  out  in  the  offal ! " 

Paul's  work  had  stopped.  The  shortest  of  the  scenes, 
it  had  broken  upon  him  with  extraordinary  brutality. 
That  his  father  should  renounce  him  when  M.  Aubret 
failed,  was  a  disaster  crowning  what  had  gone  before,  and 
leaving  no  hope  anywhere.  Without  home  or  refuge,  a 
reformatory  might  be  as  good  a  place  as  another — and 
better  than  a  railway  van. 

Of  their  own  accord,  his  fingers  sought  a  lamp-shade. 
His  eyes  were  riveted  anxiously  on  the  little  opening  in  the 
heavy  barred  door.  A  guard's  round  must  be  due. 
Light  as  the  foot-fall  was,  his  ear,  trained  to  the  sound, 
caught  it. 

An  ugly  face  peered  in;  hard,  searching  eyes  scanned 
the  young  inmate's  features  and  counted  the  lamp-shades. 
The  loop-hole  was  clicked  into  place ;  the  footsteps  passed  on. 

Paul  wearily  dropped  his  work,  looking  up  and  round 
the  bleak  walls.  The  sun  had  not  sent  its  shaft  of  light, 
to-day.  He  wished  he  had  chosen  brush-making.  When 
it  came  to  counting  by  hundreds,  brushes  must  be  less 
tedious,  because  not  so  gaudy  and  fragile.  These  colours 
flashed  and  blinded;  and  the  paper  soiled  easily. 

Still  one  scene  to  recall.    The  work  began  again. 


He  was  before  a  judge  famous  for  penetrating  the  cor- 
rupted heart  of  youth. 

Dully,  Paul  answered  questions  put  to  him.     No,  he 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT  117 

was  not  guilty.  Yes,  he  had  handled  the  bronzes.  No,  he 
could  not  positively  declare  whether  they  were  genuine 
or  not.  No,  he  could  not  explain  why  he  had  put  copies 
in  place  at  the  chateau,  whereas  another  boy,  sent  in  his 
stead,  had  delivered  the  originals  entrusted  to  him.  And  so 
on,  and  so  on.  What  could  all  this  matter?  Why  so  much 
talking,  and  to  so  little  purpose?  It  was  all  very  simple, 
if  they  could  be  made  to  understand.  What  did  any  of 
the  facts  advanced  against  him  amount  to,  if  taken  singly? 
But  where  people  would  not  understand.  ...  It  was 
all  very  hazy  and  involved,  as  Paul  rather  heard  than  saw. 
The  facts  brought  together  by  the  righteous  Badajeze, 
bent  on  defending  honesty  in  the  name  of  art,  were  truly 
impressive  by  their  number  and  breadth  of  interpretation. 
Not  an  act  nor  a  word  of  Paul's  during  that  week  but 
assumed  importance.  Every  event  of  that  last  night 
and  last  morning  was  capital,  of  course.  His  watching 
before  M.  Aubret's  house  (after  provoking  a  heart-seiz- 
ure), and  before  the  chateau  (meditating  a  return  of  the 
stolen  pieces);  his  slipping  up  to  bed  without  seeing  his 
father  (fear  of  being  questioned  as  to  his  movements); 
his  coming  early  to  the  shop,  his  assaulting  Manadan,  his 
hurting  his  own  back  (while  trying  to  conceal  the  stolen 
bronze  under  the  work-table);  finally  his  being  caught 
with  one  article  and  with  the  money  whose  existence 
could  be  explained  only  by  the  sale  of  the  other  bronze 
(he  had  made  sure  M.  Aubret's  illness  was  serious,  before 
alleging  the  ten  francs  came  from  him) : — so  the  case  was 
pieced  out. 

Night  crept  close.  Paul  no  longer  saw  to  work.  The 
rustling  of  his  fingers  ceased.  All  sounds  in  the  corridor 
had  been  hushed. 


118         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Upon  him  and  his  comrades  in  misery,  each  individually 
alone,  weighed  collectively  the  mighty  Silence. 

VI 

PAUL  told  me  of  these  scenes,  and  of  his  life  and  thought 
during  these  months.  As  he  talked,  he  sat  in  his  favourite 
place  on  my  ottoman;  or  rather,  he  half  reclined  there,  for 
his  strength  had  not  returned.  Still  quite  pale  and  with 
listless  eyes,  he  would  try  to  smile,  at  times,  but  betrayed 
the  effort  it  cost  him.  His  lithe  figure  had  lengthened,  and 
he  seemed  all  the  taller  because  his  shoulders  had  not 
broadened.  I  had  supplied  him  with  subjects  other  than 
his  recent  experiences;  but  nothing  in  the  way  of  books  or 
anecdotes  or  outside  amusements  was  worth  the  freedom 
to  sit  or  to  recline  as  he  pleased  in  that  spot  of  his  olden 
choice,  and  to  talk  by  way  of  atonement  for  his  almost 
endless  silence. 

We  were  not  seeing  each  other,  as  before,  at  odd  hours 
scattered  throughout  the  course  of  a  week  or  a  month. 
He  was  not  a  visitor,  nor  an  apprentice,  nor  a  wan*  at  any- 
body's mercy.  He  had  become  my  Paul. 

"When  the  doors  clanged  after  us,  it  was  as  if  I  had  been 
waked  up  suddenly,"  he  said.  "Everything  was  so  un- 
real, you  know.  It  hadn't  been  as  if  I  myself  was  act- 
ing. But  it  came  back  gradually,  when  I  was  alone  in 
my  cell." 

His  fate  had  been  settled  before  I  reached  the  conva- 
lescent stage  after  emotion  had  provoked  an  attack  of  gout 
in  my  throat,  threatening  the  heart,  rendering  me  helpless 
and  useless,  bringing  me  near  my  end.  Though  I  set 
adequate  lawyers  on  the  trail  and  found  ready  coopera- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  Marquis,  who  had  been  stirred  by 
Paul's  appeal  and  asked  no  better  than  to  believe  him 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

innocent,  yet  there  were  awkward  obstacles.  The  task 
might  have  proved  simpler  if  Paul  had  been  condemned 
for  felony  under  ordinary  rules;  the  very  measures  of  ac- 
commodation adopted  in  his  behalf,  to  save  him  from  the 
penitentiary  colony,  magnified  the  complexity  of  his  posi- 
tion and  multiplied  our  difficulties.  My  detectives  traced 
the  missing  bronze  to  the  rag-shop  where  the  veritable 
thief  had  disposed  of  it;  but  meanwhile,  Andre  Manadan 
had  disappeared.  Shred  by  shred  I  had  to  gather  evidence 
against  him,  while  destroying  that  against  Paul. 

The  Marquis  de  Vervillers  had  refused  to  prosecute; 
but  the  artistic  locksmith  had  persisted  in  championing 
the  fair  fame  of  the  proletariat  as  besmirched  by  his  ap- 
prentice; and  the  father,  while  weeping  and  imploring 
that  his  son  be  spared  the  infamy  of  a  prison,  would  not 
shelter  a  thief  in  his  home.  That  this  was  the  woman's 
doing,  I  never  doubted. 

The  Magistrate  was  not  convinced  on  certain  points, 
and  summoned  two  "morality  witnesses"  on  Paul's  be- 
half. The  first,  Delligny,  was  in  such  fear  of  the  law 
that  no  clear  expression  of  opinion  or  of  recollection 
could  be  drawn  from  him;  the  second,  Marcel  Lavenu, 
tempestuously  asserted  his  friend's  innocence,  but  flew 
into  a  passion  when  he  found  his  word  doubted,  got  ir- 
retrievably tangled  in  judicial  hair-splitting  between 
ideas  and  occurrences,  and  was  finally  ejected  ignomini- 
ously  for  rude  remarks  about  the  law. 

No  choice  remained,  then;  the  Magistrate  exercised 
clemency  in  discarding  the  suggestion  of  a  penitentiary 
colony;  and  Paul  was  consigned  temporarily  to  an  estab- 
lishment for  youth  with  dangerous  tendencies  who  were 
not  yet  criminals. 

When  securing  his  release,  I  stipulated  with  his  parents 


120         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

that  I  should  be  allowed  to  keep  him,  to  educate  him  and 
bring  him  up  as  my  own.  They  hesitated,  warning  me 
that  they  would  not  be  held  responsible  for  what  might 
occur  in  my  house  or  elsewhere;  I  think  they  had  veritably 
worked  themselves  up  to  the  point  of  accepting  him  as  a 
dangerous  character.  But  the  father  said  at  last  that  he 
would  not  stand  in  the  way  of  what  I  represented  as 
being  the  future  of  his  son. 

"The  clanging  of  the  doors  woke  me,"  Paul  said. 
"  Everything  had  been  as  dreadful  before,  but  not  so  real, 
you  see.  Now  I  knew  I  was  locked,  chained,  bolted  in. 
I  was  a  prisoner,  not  much  better  than  a  convict.  And 
I  hadn't  done  anything!" 

Under  the  influence  of  time  or  disuse,  his  voice  had 
deepened;  no  longer  a  boy's,  almost  a  young  man's  voice. 
But  those  last  words  were  spoken  as  a  boy — "And  I 
hadn't  done  anything!" — faintly,  thinly,  yet  with  oh! 
such  tragic  unconsciousness  of  a  faith  accepting,  because 
needs  must,  even  what  is  most  wrong  with  the  world. 
I  covered  my  eyes  with  one  hand.  "Am  I  tiring  you?" 
he  asked,  quickly  solicitous.  I  shook  my  head.  "Then 
I  may  go  on?  It's  a  relief."  "Go  on,"  I  murmured. 
And  he  went  on,  the  young  man  speaking. 

After  the  doors  had  closed,  he  stood  in  a  line  with  other 
boys.  All  were  still  as  when  they  had  left  home,  or  shop, 
or  the  street — and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  to  change. 
Some  were  working-boys,  some  seemed  of  better  fortune, 
a  few  were  ragged  and  disreputable;  as  for  him,  he  wore  his 
apprentice  suit  of  drill.  Most  of  the  boys  had  evil  faces, 
either  recalling  Andre  Manadan  or  else  belonging  to  the 
criminal  type. 

"They  reminded  me  of  the  vagabonds  of  the  railway 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          121 

vans,"  said  Paul.  "I  tried  to  tell  myself  that  they  too 
might  give  a  crust  to  some  old  woman  cast  out  in  the 
offal." 

He  noticed  one,  standing  just  before  him  in  the  line, 
whose  offence  could  not  have  lain  deeper  than  weakness, 
and  so  might  have  consisted  of  anything.  Paul,  in  all  his 
life,  had  never  owned  such  fine  clothes.  The  face  was 
very  pale  and  drawn,  with  heavy  rings  under  the  eyes; 
this  boy  had  suffered  morally,  whereas  the  others  were 
sullen,  rebellious,  dangerous,  steeled  against  sensitiveness. 
There  was  a  mute  appeal  in  his  blue  eyes  directed 
towards  any  official  who  drew  near.  He  could  not  ask  for 
release,  so  he  must  have  craved  to  be  understood  in  that 
which  he  himself  would  have  been  at  loss  to  explain. 

"His  father  is  surely  of  a  good  family — as  you  are,  or 
as  my  father  used  to  be,"  Paul  commented.  "And  I  said 
to  myself,  'We  are  here  together,  for  all  that.' " 

They  were  measured,  and  described,  and  photographed, 
and  the  details  noted  down  in  books;  they  became  dis- 
tinguishable no  longer  as  units,  but  as  types.  They  took 
it  all  very  hard — as  if  this  was  what  made  the  difference! 

He  paused.     Then: 

"It  did  matter,  though.  You  see,  they  had  the  notion 
they  must  resent  everything,  and  they  began  with  the 
outward  signs." 

Paul  had  then  taken  the  first  step  towards  philosophy  in 
his  life  to  come,  the  step  that  was  to  set  the  pace  for  inner 
development.  The  stability  of  his  character,  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  nature,  were  at  stake.  And  he  saved  them  by 
the  swift,  intuitive  resolution,  applied  to  material  details, 
that  he  would  not  rebel  uselessly. 

His  eyes,  listless  a  few  moments  before,  regained  their 
glow  as  they  watched  me,  earnest,  searching,  fascinated. 


122         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

The  light  faded,  and  he  was  again  listless  when  he  spoke. 

The  first  days  were  not  the  hardest.  He  had  his  new 
trade  to  learn,  the  regulations  to  observe,  the  guards  to 
conciliate  if  possible.  This  gave  much  occupation  to 
his  thoughts.  By  a  concentrated  effort  of  will,  he  fought 
off  depression  and  despair.  If  he  yielded  to  those,  he 
would  be  fit  for  nothing  when  he  came  out.  The  term 
of  delivery  could  not  be  very  remote.  Should  M.  Aubret 
recover,  it  might  come  soon;  otherwise  there  might  be 
hope  from  the  Marquis;  or  from  his  father  and  M.  Bada- 
jeze,  but  only  if  Andre  Manadan  were  caught. 

"You  don't  mean — "I  interrupted  him — "that  you 
could  bear  to  think  of  them  at  this  period?  Or  not 
calmly,  as  you  are  speaking  now?  Surely,  some  bitter- 
ness  " 

Why  bitterness?  he  asked.  His  surprise  at  my  sugges- 
tion was  deep. 

"Once  I  had  started  to  let  them  punish  me,  it  was  too 
late  to  stop,"  he  said  simply.  "Why  should  I  blame  any- 
body for  that?  What  I  think  of  Manadan  is  what  I 
thought  then,  and  that  was  what  I  knew  before  ever  hear- 
ing of  M.  Badajeze.  No,  I  had  to  turn  my  back  on  ugly 
thoughts,  and  say,  'I've  helped  to  put  myself  here;  and 
now  I'm  caught  and  caged,  I  can  only  harm  myself  by 
fighting.'  That  was  my  idea.  Vague  and  general  when 
I  stood  in  line  with  the  rest,  after  the  doors  closed  on  us. 
But  I  had  plenty  of  leisure  to  work  it  out,  in  a  solitary  cell 
with  scarcely  a  sound  to  remind  me  there  was  anybody  but 
myself  in  the  world." 

Individually  alone  and  collectively  in  silence.  That  was 
the  principle  regulating  their  existence.  Young  outcasts 
of  society,  degraded  by  ill-doing  or  evil  thinking  of  various 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         123 

sorts  and  in  all  measures  short  of  actual  crime,  they  had 
to  be  spared  corrupting  contacts. 

Paul's  conventional  notions  of  crime  had  been  gathered 
at  school  and  in  the  workshop,  or  from  newspapers,  or  by 
listening  to  street-talk.  He  had  never  been  able  to 
establish  any  just  balance  between  accident  and  premedi- 
tation, between  the  committing  of  an  act  or  being  checked 
by  forces  beyond  one's  command.  The  moral  question 
was  simple  enough;  so  was  the  world's  method  of  retribu- 
tion; only,  the  two  did  not  agree. 

What  counted  first  in  the  measuring  out  of  punishment 
seemed  to  be  whether  or  not  one  had  committed  the  act, 
and  secondly,  whether  one  had  planned  it.  So  a  boy  who 
ran  away  from  home  three  or  four  times  a  month,  but 
returned  repentant  whenever  starvation  threatened,  was 
more  moral  than  a  confirmed  but  inoffensive  vagabond 
living  by  his  wits  the  year  round.  So  a  boy  who  im- 
pulsively pilfered  gilt  jewellery  or  cheap  perfumes  and 
pomatum  at  a  village  fair  was  preferable  to  one  who  could 
eat  only  after  plundering  vegetable-stalls  and  chicken- 
houses.  So  a  boy  who  systematically  beat  his  mother  and 
sisters  as  part  of  the  day's  work,  having  no  father,  was  less 
reprehensible  than  a  precocious  bandit  who,  carried 
away  by  drunken  fury,  knifed  a  comrade  whom  he  had 
previously  threatened  under  like  conditions.  The  osten- 
sible purpose  of  isolation  in  penitentiary  establishments 
and  reformatories  was  to  prevent  the  second  of  each 
category  from  corrupting  the  first.  According  to  such 
standards,  Paul,  considered  guilty  of  planning  a  theft 
and  secretly  disposing  of  the  spoils,  was  a  dangerous  law- 
breaker capable  of  corrupting  fellow-convicts  who  had 
acted  accidentally,  though  repeatedly.  Paul  could  not 
believe  this;  no  more  could  he  believe  that  running  away 


124         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

and  repenting  when  convenient  was  better  than  a  frank 
policy  of  vagabondage,  nor  thieving  from  vanity  more 
respectable  than  stealing  to  live.  It  was  all  hard  to 
balance  in  one's  judgment,  and  not  pleasant  to  think  about. 
Yet  it  kept  returning  constantly,  without  ever  bringing 
its  answer.  Perhaps  many  here  were  neither  guiltier  nor 
less  moral  than  he.  Or  at  least,  perhaps  they  had  not 
been.  For  now — now  something  in  the  faces  he  saw 
terrified  him,  and  something  else  revolted  him. 

With  most  of  the  boys,  he  had  no  standard  of  compari- 
son; but  he  caught  occasional  glimpses  of  faces  seen  on 
entering.  The  change — one  of  two  changes — had  come 
over  them  all.  He  could  read  it  in  their  expressions,  one 
change  or  the  other,  creeping  over  their  faces,  gnawing 
into  their  hearts,  and  identifying  them  with  one  of  two 
types  into  which  all  were  divided  who  had  dwelt  long 
within  these  walls  and  bars.  He  knew  that  it  must  be 
hanging  over  him,  too;  thought  its  beginning  might  be 
already  there,  hi  his  face  which  he  could  never  see,  but 
which  others  saw — as  he  saw  theirs. 

Because  at  times  they  would  catch  fleeting  glimpses  of 
one  another,  these  young  reprobates  who  lived  in  be- 
neficent silence  on  the  road,  high  or  low,  towards  conven- 
tional morality.  When  hurried,  singly,  through  the  long 
corridors,  they  might  seize,  in  a  nightmarish  way,  an 
impression  of  a  face  peering  through  a  tiny  barred  trap 
in  the  door  of  a  cell — a  face  of  hatred  and  vengeance, 
or  a  face  of  cowering  fear.  Those  were  the  moral  cate- 
gories into  one  or  the  other  of  which  the  beneficiaries  of 
the  establishment  were  reformed — hatred  and  vengeance, 
or  cowering  fear. 

Once,  Paul  thought  he  recognised  the  boy  who,  on  en- 
tering, had  most  reminded  him  of  Andre  Manadan.  His, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         125 

was  the  hatred  and  vengeance.  Again,  he  knew  he  recog- 
nised the  tall,  nice  boy,  the  son  of  a  gentleman — perhaps. 
His,  was  the  cowering  fear. 

A  species  of  grey,  lifeless  lifting  of  the  darkness,  bringing 
no  sham  semblance  of  light,  would  wake  him  each  morning 
before  the  guard  came  the  rounds.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
slept  only  while  night  pressed  upon  him  with  irresistible 
weight;  though  merciful  weariness  of  body  and  dullness 
of  mind  had  in  reality  stifled  consciousness.  But  when 
night  drew  away  its  covering,  he  would  rouse  at  once,  sud- 
denly, completely,  aware  of  every  ache  in  his  form  caused 
by  work  the  day  before,  of.  every  discouraging  thought 
which  had  flitted  through  his  brain  since  he  had  lost  his 
liberty  and  forfeited  the  respect  of  men.  With  body, 
limbs,  and  head  flat  against  his  hard  pallet,  his  eyes  would 
stare  vacantly  towards  the  dismal  mockery  of  sun-rays 
reflected  back  and  forth  by  so  many  grim  walls  that  they 
had  lost  all  joy  or  life. 

Then  the  key  would  grind  in  the  lock  and  a  guard 
would  stand  sternly,  half -opening  the  door  as  if  expecting 
to  be  attacked.  The  guards  did  not  like  him,  and  Paul 
did  not  at  first  know  why.  He  came  gradually  to  believe 
it  was  because  he  resisted  promptings  of  hate,  and  felt  no 
fear.  Always  ready  to  repress  violence,  they  trusted 
only  those  who  cowered.  Paul  was  gradually  understand- 
ing why  those  boys  who  did  not  rage  and  snarl  like  beasts, 
and  snap  at  any  who  neared  their  doors,  had  no  choice 
but  to  shrink  into  corners,  and  keep  their  eyes  shiftily 
lowered.  But  still  he  sank  to  neither  category;  still  he 
avoided  hatred  and  vengeance,  or  cowering  fear;  still  he 
remained  the  old  Paul — with  heart  and  soul  yearning  for 
release  to  come  while  some  remnants  of  himself  endured. 


126         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

The  opening  door  was  the  signal  for  each  boy  to  leave 
his  cell.  Through  the  bleak  corridor,  following  a  curved 
sweep  which  made  it  appear  endless,  he  passed  with  a 
guard  close  behind.  To  the  right  were  windows  through 
which  he  could  see  nothing  save  sheer  walls  and  barred 
windows;  to  the  left,  doors  whose  small,  cage-like  openings, 
with  ominous  heads  sometimes  peering  out,  he  would  fain 
have  forgotten.  Little  chance  to  look  or  not  to  look, 
however;  if  he  hesitated,  raised  his  lowered  brow,  or  even 
seemed  to  slip  his  eyes  sideways,  a  premonitory  growl 
would  reach  him,  then  a  mumbled  threat,  and  a  hand 
stretched  out  to  enforce  the  majesty  of  law.  The  real 
temptation  did  not  come  from  right  or  left,  however.  It 
came  from  far  behind  or  far  before,  where  sounds  of 
other  steps  rang  dimly  through  the  silence. 

One  after  another,  at  stated  distances,  they  threaded 
the  long,  curved  corridors;  went  down  winding  stone 
steps  within  an  iron  cage.  A  sharp,  accidental  noise  would 
break  the  rhythm — as  of  a  foot  slipping,  followed  by  a 
thud;  then  as  it  were  a  hole  of  silence  where  that  unwonted 
noise  had  been. 

As  each  boy  reached  a  certain  door,  he  was  expected 
to  run  out  into  a  tiny,  high-walled  court,  pause  at  a  faucet, 
quickly  wet  his  face  and  hands,  and  run  on  to  a  door 
beyond.  The  whole  had  been  so  organised  that  no  two 
boys  should  ever  meet;  at  most  they  could  catch,  in  long 
corridors  or  winding  stairs,  distant  glimpses  of  prison- 
suits  and  lowered  heads.  But  any  laxness  in  the  per- 
formance of  these  summary  rites  might  disturb  the  order 
of  march  and  cause  boys  to  come  together.  Paul,  having 
washed  his  arms  and  neck  too,  was  actually  found  with  his 
head  in  the  water,  and  learned  that  such  liberties  were 
inadmissible.  He,  the  scrupulously  clean  one,  came  to 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         127 

consider  that  a  dash  of  water  over  face  and  hands  sufficed. 
Indeed,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  snatch  of  air  and  the 
brief  brisk  run,  and  the  grateful  coolness  of  these  drops 
straight  from  the  earth,  he  might  have  judged  this  toilet 
elaborate  for  such  a  residence. 

Going  back  to  their  cells  by  other  passages,  always  in 
the  same  direction  so  as  never  to  cross,  they  were  set  to 
their  work,  and  the  monotony  of  the  day  began. 

If  they  had  given  no  cause  for  grave  complaint,  they 
might  pace  narrow  strips  of  cemented  court  with  high 
walls  all  round.  Raising  their  eyes,  they  could  see  the  sky, 
but  also  the  prison  windows,  whatever  the  way  they 
looked.  When  first  turned  out  here,  boys  yearned  towards 
the  sky.  But  it  was  too  far  away  to  help  them;  and  be- 
fore seeing  it,  they  had  to  remember  the  prison  whence 
this  sadly  relative  escape  had  been  sanctioned  for  a  bare 
half -hour;  also  they  met  the  eyes  of  guards  seated  above 
the  partitions,  holding  all  the  wedge-like  courts  in  view, 
jealous  for  their  authority,  bored  by  the  monotony  of  their 
task,  happy  for  the  relief  of  breaches  detected  in  the  prison 
discipline.  No,  there  was  nothing  good  to  see  when  one's 
eyes  had  been  raised.  Under  the  effect  of  nearer  and  more 
tangible  suggestions,  the  smooth  smug  heavens  became  a 
mockery.  Thereafter  the  boys,  with  sagging  heads  and 
rounded  shoulders,  would  swing  heavily  back  and  forth, 
with  shuffling  feet,  not  looking,  not  caring. 

Hearing  one  another's  steps  yet  cut  off  by  impenetrable 
walls,  they  were  forbidden  any  attempt  at  intercourse. 
Should  a  sole  scratch  the  paving,  should  a  step  linger  an 
instant  in  its  beat,  should  a  body  sway  an  inch  too  near 
the  masonry,  sharp  reprimand  came,  or  swift  punishment. 
Yet  they  managed  to  talk  after  a  fashion,  these  young 
outcasts  vowed  to  silence.  Paul  learned  to  know  the 


128         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

cadence  of  sundry  footsteps,  and  developed  a  certain 
friendship  for  them,  though  the  signals  made  were  beyond 
his  talents  of  interpretation.  To  escape  the  guards' 
attention,  they  had  to  be  subtle  indeed.  Paul,  too,  de- 
veloped a  special  gait.  Or  he  seemed  to  develop  it.  His 
was  a  desperate  effort  to  maintain  the  gait  of  days  when 
he  had  been  free. 

In  his  cell  for  all  other  hours  of  light  or  of  darkness,  he 
worked  practically  without  respite  as  long  as  a  vestige  of 
greyness  lingered  within  his  walls.  To  forget  his  fate,  and 
to  keep  a  grasp  upon  his  faculties,  he  would  repeat  those 
scenes  which  had  been  preludes  to  disaster.  Not  a  very 
congenial  subject,  one  might  be  tempted  to  believe.  Bet- 
ter than  none,  however;  and  he  could  fix  his  attention  thus 
when  everything  else  escaped  him. 

Insensibly,  he  drifted  away  from  those  scenes,  turning 
to  themes  and  pictures  more  remote.  Schooldays  in 
Verviller  appealed  to  him,  and  especially  childish  memories 
of  Arnan.  But  hours  came  when  no  scene  could  control 
his  thoughts  nor  still  the  flutters  of  his  heart.  Then,  it 
was  phrases  he  would  repeat.  With  fingers  tightly  closed 
round  a  frail  wire,  clinging  to  it  in  his  bewildered  desola- 
tion as  he  might  have  gripped  a  spar  swayed  above  an 
angry  hungry  ocean,  he  repeated  phrases  which  came  as  if 
whispered  to  him. 

"Courage — Patience — Right  Doing  and  Thinking." 

"Calm  is  the  thread  by  which  our  finest  moments  con- 
nect us  with  the  God  of  Nature." 

Calm  was  what  he  most  needed,  and  found  most  difficult 
to  preserve.  It  was  as  if  the  turmoil  of  inner  storms  must 
atone  for  the  noiselessness  beneath  whose  vacuum  his 
health,  his  will,  his  character,  the  very  essence  of  his  being 
were  perishing  slowly,  relentlessly  away. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         129 

Paul  left  the  ottoman  and  came  close  to  me,  resting  one 
hand  on  my  chair.  He  quivered  slightly. 

"There  is  another  sentence  I  used  to  hear  in  the  night, 
when  I  couldn't  bear  anything  any  longer."  His  voice 
was  so  low  and  tremulous  that  I  strained  to  listen.  " ' Re- 
member at  all  times,  in  all  places,  that  you  are  part  of  All 
Time  and  All  Space.'" 

He  looked  down  upon  me  very  earnestly : 

"That  thought  saved  me  from  falling  so  far  that  even 
you  could  not  have  rescued  me." 

VII 

I  HAD  asked  Paul  to  go  on  some  errand;  simple  enough 
and  not  requiring  much  time  or  attention.  The  reluctance 
which  he  did  not  seek  to  hide  drew  very  near  to  refusal. 
Was  it  possible,  I  wondered,  that  one  whose  nature  had 
been  so  genuine  and  character  so  sound  throughout  his 
young  years,  one  who  had  stayed  so  steadfastly  unspoiled 
in  recent  ordeals  of  body  and  soul,  could  be  changed  by  a 
short  prosperity? 

He  stood  before  me  in  a  becoming  suit  of  brown  cheviot, 
well-cut  and  perfectly  fitted;  his  brown  shoes  and  hose 
were  neat  and  showed  good  ankles;  his  collar  and  tie 
were  impeccable.  The  attitude  he  had  unconsciously 
taken  proved  that  he  had  been  born  to  wear  such  clothes; 
his  movements  were  freer  than  before  but  equally  graceful. 
Apart  from  such  changes,  one  could  note  that,  always 
good-looking,  he  had  grown  handsome;  while  the  eyes, 
the  mouth,  the  expression,  were  still  those  of  Paul. 

"Very  well,"  I  said.  "You  need  not  trouble  yourself. 
I  shall  go." 

A  gasp  of  deep  pain  parted  his  lips  and  caused  his  nostrils 
to  widen. 


130         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Oh,  it's  not  that!"  he  exclaimed.  "If  you  wouldn't 
mind  giving  me  the  money " 

"We  need  not  discuss  it  further.  And  now  I  wish  to 
work." 

"  But  with  the  money " 

"You  know  I  have  an  account  there,"  I  said.  "All  you 
had  to  do  was  to  go  ask  for  the  paper  and  bring  it  home." 

The  pink  which  had  been  returning  faintly  to  his  cheeks, 
like  a  distant  reflection  of  his  once  bright  colours,  fled  and 
left  him  very  pale. 

"I  didn't  want  to  worry  you."  His  voice  was  dull  and 
low.  "But  perhaps  I  ought  to  explain.  There's  not  a 
shop  in  Verviller  where  they  would  trust  me." 

Shocked  out  of  thought  or  word,  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  him. 
He  went  on : 

"For  everybody  here  except  you  and  Marcel — and 
perhaps  the  Marquis — I'm  a  thief  released  during  good 
behaviour." 

"Who — who  dares  say  such  things?"  I  rasped  brokenly. 

"Nobody.  It  isn't  necessary.  They  look  it  and  act 
it." 

"Are  you  not  over-sensitive?"  I  asked.  "If  no  one  has 
said  such  things — if  you  are  judging  by  looks  and  man- 
ner  " 

"Remember  that  Andre  Manadan  has  not  been  caught," 
Paul  observed  quietly.  "They  know  there's  been  theft, 
and  they  must  hold  a  culprit.  That's  natural." 

"Do  they  forget  me?"  I  thundered. 

No.  It  was  I  who  had  forgotten  myself.  I  knew  it  as 
soon  as  that  question,  which  remained  unanswered,  had 
escaped  me.  In  the  selfishness  of  a  studious  life,  I  had 
never  thought  of  showing  myself  with  the  boy.  We  had 
been  out  together,  certainly,  but  hi  the  unostentatious 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         131 

way  suited  to  my  tastes;  I  had  not  imposed  him  on  his 
fellow-citizens. 

Paul  was  the  first  to  speak: 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  worried  you  about  it.  Your  whole 
morning's  work  is  spoiled." 

"My  work  be " 

I  don't  know  whether  respect  for  Paul  or  remorse  for  my 
work's  sake  checked  me.  At  all  events,  I  found  a  more 
useful  direction  for  energy.  Writing  two  notes,  I  told 
him  to  deliver  them  at  once.  The  first  introduced  M. 
Paul  Clermont  to  my  stationer,  stating  that  he  was  author- 
ised to  buy  whatever  he  pleased  there  and  have  it  charged 
to  me.  The  second,  addressed  to  Lavenu's  stables,  or- 
dered a  carriage  for  the  afternoon. 

When  he  had  gone,  I  wrote  to  Frere  Alexandre,  inviting 
him  to  lunch  with  us  both.  This  note  I  entrusted  to 
Leonie  for  the  post.  I  did  so  without  trepidation.  For 
the  marvel  of  marvels  was  that  Paul  had  completely  won 
her  heart. 

After  an  hour's  drive  through  the  streets  of  Verviller, 
stopping  at  several  prominent  shops  which  I  entered  lean- 
ing on  Paul's  arm,  we  went  out  into  the  country,  for  he  had 
asked  to  see  his  grandfather. 

The  cottage,  squeezed  within  a  yard  or  two  of  a  dusty 
road,  did  not  look  the  abode  of  all  delights  he  had  de- 
scribed. The  tavern  garden  across  the  way  did  not  ap- 
pear either  vast  or  entrancingly  beautiful.  Paul  himself 
commented  upon  this: 

"They  must  have  sold  more  than  half  their  garden.  It 
used  to  be  much  bigger." 

"Yet  the  trees,  which  you  told  me  stood  at  the  end,  are 
still  there,"  I  was  cruel  enough  to  object. 


132         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"That's  been  puzzling  me,"  he  said  quite  simply. 
"Anyhow,  it  used  to  be  better  kept.  Run  to  weed  and 
seed,  now.  Our  cottage  is  neglected,  too.  Grandfather 
and  grandmother  are  both  old;  they  don't  care  much, 
any  more." 

The  carriage  drew  up.  A  small,  frail  old  man,  with 
watery  eyes  blinking  in  the  sun,  and  slightly  bowed  knees 
held  rigidly,  watched  us  with  melancholy,  incurious  gaze. 

"It's  not  worth  while  introducing  grandfather,"  Paul 
said  with  his  practical  downrightness.  "He  couldn't 
talk  to  you." 

Paul  sprang  out,  and  I  drove  on.  It  had  been  under- 
stood that  I  should  call  for  him  in  half  an  hour.  I  wanted 
to  see  the  woods  where  he  had  played  as  a  child. 

Tree-stumps,  barren  stretches,  and  weather-stained 
rocks  were  all  that  I  found;  and  the  landscape  offered  noth- 
ing in  other  directions.  I  told  the  coachman  to  go  slowly 
back  towards  Arnan. 

The  village  was  not  yet  in  sight  when  Paul  landed  in  his 
seat  beside  me,  having  taken  a  flying  jump  from  the  road. 

"Let's  drive  on,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  said  excitedly. 
"We  had  nowhere  else  to  go  to,  had  we?" 

Telling  him  to  give  the  coachman  any  orders  he  chose,  I 
surveyed  him. 

Evidently,  he  had  run  fast;  his  breath  came  quickly, 
his  face  was  stained  with  dust  and  perspiration.  As  for 
his  clothes,  they  were  mottled  brown  and  grey,  and  some- 
what rumpled;  his  hat — a  n,ew  straw — he  carried  in  one 
hand,  it  was  broken  out  of  shape  as  if  several  people  had 
stepped  in  it.  Beneath  this  outward  disorder,  I  noted 
restrained  exhilaration. 

Was  his  grandfather  well?  I  asked.  He  answered  Yes. 
I  did  not  insist. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         133 

When  we  reached  the  crest  of  the  Ripote,  he  said: 

"May  we  stop?  You  will  think  me  silly — but  I  should 
like  to  sit  where  we  were  that  day,  three  years  ago." 

This  idea  of  his  impressed  me,  and  may  explain  why,  as 
I  stepped  from  the  carriage,  I  noticed  vividly  what  lay 
before  me — familiar  features  to  which  I  had  never  given 
much  thought.  The  dome-shaped  hill-top,  with  its 
roads  winding  up  to  the  crest  from  either  side:  the  woods 
in  the  direction  away  from  town,  where  the  level  of  the 
summit  curved  gently  down;  the  woods  lying  towards 
town,  where  the  earth  rose  yet  slightly  before  reaching  the 
swift  decline;  the  road  itself,  hemmed  in  by  ditches,  one 
not  much  more  than  ankle-deep,  the  other,  towards  Vervil- 
ler,  scarcely  knee-deep,  but  spanned  by  a  rustic  foot- 
bridge or  cart-way,  five  or  six  logs  side  by  side  on  two 
transversal  pieces : — was  it  because  of  Paul's  mood  that  I 
saw  so  vividly,  or  was  the  scene  itself  seeking  to  whisper 
the  tragedy  destined  soon  to  break  this  peace  with  uproar, 
to  steep  this  soil  in  blood? 

We  took  our  old  places  on  the  edge  of  the  crest,  beyond 
the  last  trees,  with  Verviller  and  the  plain  of  the  Mareille 
beneath  us.  The  sun  was  still  high  enough  for  that 
landscape  to  be  simply,  unsuggestively  beautiful. 

"I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  about  my  future,"  he  be- 
gan. "You  are  sure  you  don't  mind  my  staying  with 
you?" 

"It  is  my  wish  that  you  should  never  leave  me,  Paul." 

The  radiant,  wondering  smile  dawned  for  the  first  time 
since  we  had  been  brought  together  again. 

"I  shall  never  leave  you.  And  I  want  to  be  educated. 
But  I  can't  do  more  than  go  to  night-school."  After  a 
moment's  pause,  he  added:  "You  see,  I  must  work  for 
you." 


134         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Work  for  me!  My  dear  boy,  don't  you  understand 
that  I  am  pledged  to  your  father  to  supply  you  with  both 
an  education  and  a  career?  I  don't  want  your  work.  I 
want  you!" 

His  expression  increased  the  earnestness  of  his  words 
as  he  began  again : 

"  It's  because  I  belong  to  you  that  I  must  work.  Boys 
always  have  to  work  for  their  parents.  Only,  I  don't 
know  what  trade  to  choose.  You  wouldn't  wish  me  to  go 
in  an  office,  would  you?  And  apprenticeship  is  long  and 
costs  money.  M.  Badajeze  won't  take  me  back."  His 
voice  sank  and  his  head  drooped  slightly:  "I  went  and 
asked  him." 

Exposed  to  such  a  rebuff  which  he  had  concealed !  And 
as  I  shrank  from  the  idea,  a  double  picture  flashed  before 
me.  On  one  panel  I  saw  myself  introducing  to  Verviller 
society  the  eminently  presentable  young  man  beside  me. 
On  the  other,  I  saw  him  in  apprentices'  blue  drill,  holding 
a  hammer  and  standing  at  a  forge  which  spat  sparks  and 
vomited  smoke  over  the  entire  neighbourhood. 

"I  have  enough  money  for  both  of  us,"  I  said,  "and 
your  plan  is  not  only  unnecessary  but  it  would  defeat  mine. 
When  you  are  educated,  you  shall  be  absolutely  free  to 
choose  the  career  you  please.  Meanwhile,  can't  you 
trust  my  judgment?  " 

His  ah-  reminded  me  of  the  mystery  at  Arnan,  even 
before  he  said : 

"Grandfather  didn't  recognise  me." 

Without  feigning  surprise  himself,  he  stopped  as  if  ex- 
pecting me  to  be  surprised.  To  please  him,  I  pretended. 
Astonishment  on  my  part  might  have  been  genuine,  if  he 
had  announced  the  old  man  had  indeed  recognised  him. 

"They  must  have  told  him  I  was  dead,"  he  went  on. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          135 

"When  I  went  up  and  said,  'Grandfather,  it's  Paul!' — he 
shook  his  head  and  started  to  cry.  I  told  him  once  more 
that  I  was  myself.  'Yes,  yes!'  he  said.  'And  there's 
another  over  in  the  gooseberry  bushes,  yonder.  Always 
there,  when  he  isn't  here  or  in  the  woods  with  his  mother.' 
Then  he  laughed,  tears  raining  down  his  face,  and  talked 
of  things  that  happened  years  and  years  ago."  Paul 
swallowed  hard.  "I  thought  he'd  gone  mad.  But  he 
knew  grandmother  was  off  for  the  day,  in  the  next  village. 
So  I  told  myself,  'He  is  sane,  but  thinks  me  dead.  If 
what  they  believe  were  true,  it  would  be  better  that  way.' 
He  did  say,  once:  'Paul  is  dead.'  But  a  minute  later  he 
was  talking  about  the  woods  and  the  gooseberry  bushes. 

"As  he  had  reminded  me  of  the  garden — and  I  hadn't 
forgotten — I  went  over  to  look  at  it.  There  wasn't 
anybody  at  the  inn,  and  I  just  walked  through.  There 
was  a  boy  in  the  bushes  and  shrubs  and  things;  working, 
not  playing.  And  the  boy  wasn't  Paul,  but  Andre  Mana- 
dan." 

I  sprang  up.  In  spite  of  old  limbs  and  aching  joints,  I 
swear  that  I  sprang  up. 

"And  you  let  him  run  away?     You  didn't " 

Paul  waited,  unmoved,  until  I  should  finish.  His  atti- 
tude disarmed  and  shamed  me. 

*'Go  on,"  I  commanded  sharply,  sitting  down.  My 
movements  were  slow  and  painful,  this  time. 

"Run  away?"  Paul  said  with  a  tinge  of  scorn.  "He 
wouldn't  know  how.  Even  to  dodge  arrest,  he  didn't  have 
brains  or  courage  to  go  any  farther  than  this,  and  stupidly 
chose  a  place  I  talked  about  very  often.  He  had  with  him 
a  pocket-book  he'd  picked  up  or  stolen,  with  the  papers 
of  an  orphan  in  it;  his  legs  gave  out  at  Arnan,  and  he  asked 
for  work  as  kitchen  and  garden  boy.  The  people  of  the 


136         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

inn  thought  his  papers  all  right;  he  was  never  shy  about 
lying,  you  know;  the  description  came  as  near  fitting  him 
as  it  would  any  stunted  boy  of  his  age  with  overgrown  hair 
and  an  average  form  of  face;  and  his  handwriting  being 
as  illegible  as  the  signature  he  imitated,  there  was  nothing 
to  give  him  away." 

"Such  a  nature  as  his  volunteered  all  this  information?" 
I  could  not  help  asking. 

"No,  I  had  to  beat  it  out  of  him,"  Paul  replied  cheer- 
fully. "He  knew  I  must  remember  that  ugly  blow  in  the 
back,  so  he  raised  his  spade  as  soon  as  he  saw  me.  I 
knocked  it  out  of  his  hand,  and  he  tried  to  kick  me  with  his 
heavy  nailed  boot.  It's  funny,  the  sort  of  courage  coward- 
ice gives  people  when  they've  got  a  weapon  and  you  haven't. 
I  dodged,  then  ducked  and  rammed  him  with  my  head  full 
in  the  chest.  Always  had  a  hard  head,  you  know.  Knocked 
him  flat.  For  a  while,  he  only  blubbered  in  answer  to 
my  questions.  Then  he  told  me  a  straight  story,  I  fancy. 
I  warned  him  I'd  give  him  another  beating  for  every  lie  I 
caught  him  telling.  We  had  to  have  a  plain  talk,  you  see, 
because  I  don't  want  him  to  go  to  the  reformatory." 

At  these  words,  I  lost  my  temper. 

"Do  you  realise  that  as  long  as  that  rogue  remains  in 
concealment,  your  case  is  obscure?"  I  cried  out.  "I  shall 
go  back  at  once,  and " 

"  No !  You  can't  touch  Andre  Manadan  on  the  strength 
of  what  I'm  telling  you.  He  has  my  promise  that  I 
sha'n't  betray  him." 

I  collapsed: 

"You  dear,  adorable  little  donkey!  You  are  enough 
to  make  one  long  for  the  physical  strength  to  thrash  your 
stupidity  out  of  you — and  you  give  one  fresh  confidence 
in  the  entire  future  of  humanity!" 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          137 

Smiling  through  very  solemn  eyes,  he  finished  his  story : 

"I  told  that  scamp  what  prison  life  was  like,  and  how, 
put  there  by  him,  I'd  been  saved  by  you.  And  I  said  we 
should  try  to  help  him  if  he  came  and  made  a  confession. 
The  things  are  found,  and  the  Marquis  wouldn't  prose- 
cute; M.  Badajeze  wouldn't  care  for  another  scandal 
about  his  shop;  and  Andre  Manadan's  mother  would 
perjure  herself  to  the  last  tooth  in  her  head  for  his  sake. 
So  there's  really  nobody  to  interfere,  if  he  tells  the  truth 
and  we  back  him  up.  But  if  he's  caught  using  another 
boy's  papers  and  signature,  it  will  be  no  longer  a  case  for 
his  family  and  employer  to  decide.  I  warned  him  we 
couldn't  save  him  from  that,  even  if  we  wanted  to;  and 
there  was  no  reason  why  we  should  trouble,  unless  he  came 
forward  spontaneously  and  told  the  truth  about  me.  The 
picture  I  drew  of  prison  life  was  lively,  I  promise  you;  and 
it's  the  penitentiary  colony,  ever  so  much  worse,  which  is 
waiting  for  him  if  he's  caught.  I  may  be  wrong,"  Paul 
concluded  abruptly,  "but  I  fancy  he  will  turn  up  within 
the  next  few  days.  He's  tired  of  hard  work,  and  the 
attic  he  sleeps  in  is  full  of  rats." 

Now  that  for  the  first  time  he  felt  free  to  plan  whatever 
he  would,  Paul  went  on  to  speak,  almost  whisperingly, 
of  his  innermost  aspirations. 

He  knew  what  he  wanted  to  do,  but  it  would  require 
years  and  cost  much  money.  If  I  would  help  with  the 
educational  expenses  while  they  weren't  too  severe,  he 
asked  to  stay  with  me,  helping  in  the  house,  running 
errands,  learning  to  be  my  secretary,  serving  me  in  any 
way  which  might  be  a  fair  exchange.  After  a  while,  if  he 
proved  his  worth,  perhaps  I  would  help  further  by  lend- 
ing him  money  which  he  could  repay  later. 

He  must  take  his  degree,  first,  and  then  study  law.  Not 


138         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

to  practise,  however;  he  only  wanted  to  master  it.  As  a 
means  for  earning  a  livelihood,  he  did  not  like  it.  Too 
often,  the  interpretation  of  texts  counted  for  more  than 
the  true  principle  of  justice.  Countries  made  laws  to  main- 
tain right  and  repress  evil;  and  then  an  ably  defended 
scoundrel  stood  a  splendid  chance  for  getting  off  scot-free, 
where  an  innocent  person  who  lost  his  head,  or  lacked 
friends,  or  had  not  a  genius  as  counsel,  might  be  sent  to 
prison  by  mistake  on  circumstantial  evidence.  He  felt 
he  had  to  know  law,  as  a  step  towards  his  real  work. 

"Did  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "when  speaking  of  the  scene 
in  M.  Badajeze's  parlour,  of  a  voice  I  heard?  I  call  it  a 
voice,  yet  it  wasn't  quite  that.  When  you  speak,  for 
instance,  I  hear  a  sound  in  my  ear,  and  then  I  understand. 
This  didn't  make  any  sound,  outside;  I  just  understood 
at  once,  as  if  I  were  hearing  inside.  I  heard  the  words 
plainly.  They  weren't  my  imagination;  at  the  time, 
I  thought  they  must  be;  but  I  got  to  know  that  inner  voice 
very  well,  later.  It  would  come  when  I  wanted  to  scream 
and  fling  myself  against  the  walls  of  my  cell.  I  knew  that 
was  a  silly  thing  to  do;  when  such  cries  and  noises  reached 
me  from  other  cells,  and  the  guards  came  running,  the 
thud  of  blows  and  the  screams  for  mercy  were  too  horri- 
ble." He  shuddered.  " — Oh,  no!"  he  answered  my 
startled  look  with  scathing  sarcasm.  "There  was  no 
corporal  punishment — not  officially.  But  when  boys 
attempted  to  dash  their  brains  out.  .  .  . 

"I  knew  such  behaviour  wouldn't  do  any  good;  but  at 
times  a  sort  of  fury  would  come  over  me,  and  all  I  could  do 
was  to  repeat  to  myself  those  words  about  calm  which  had 
come  to  me  in  more  or  less  calm  moments.  I  would  repeat 
them  like  a  rosary — praying  for  calm,  the  thread  connecting 
with  the  God  of  Nature.  And  as  soon  as  I  got  control 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         139 

of  myself,  the  voice  would  speak  again,  but  always  the 
same  messaage  after  those  attacks,  always  the  same  words, 
'Courage — Patience — Right  Doing  and  Thinking';  or  else 
those  about  All  Time  and  All  Space. 

"And  now,  after  leaving  me,  that  voice  has  come  back: 
with  different  words.  It  tells  me  I  have  work  to  do,  and 
that  I  am  living  expressly  to  do  it.  I  must  help  boys 
who  are  as  I  was — both  at  home  and  in  prison." 

Within  a  week,  Andre  Manadan  reappeared;  and 
events  came  to  pass  very  much  as  Paul  had  foreseen. 

And  then — (my  hand  trembles  as  I  write  of  it) — the 
stain  being  effaced  from  the  boy's  name,  Clermont  pro- 
claimed his  just  and  legal  rights  as  a  father;  and  Paul, 
taken  from  me,  was  sent  back  to  the  workshop. 


PART   THREE 
DEATH 


THE  apprentices  were  busy  at  almost  noiseless  tasks, 
when  Robert  Lavenu,  a  streak  of  blue  and  red,  a  crash  of 
steel  and  leather,  bolted  through  the  workshop  and  rushed 
to  the  house-door. 

"It's  coming — it's  here!"  he  shouted. 

Those  at  the  work-table  looked  up  quickly,  and  toiled  on 
more  quietly  than  before,  with  restrained  breathing.  The 
door,  pushed  to,  had  not  quite  closed. 

"I'm  ordered  to  rejoin  my  corps,"  Robert  Lavenu  con- 
tinued. He  sat  excitedly  on  the  edge  of  a  chair.  "The 
Germans  are  mobilising  all  along  the  frontier,  where  they 
have  stretched  chains,  and  are  cutting  away  the  brush, 
and  placing  advanced  batteries." 

The  phrases  had  tripped  over  each  other,  and  appeared 
to  have  many  more  behind  them,  when  he  was  stopped  by 
Pere  Elard,  the  man  who  looked  like  a  carpenter  and 
lived  on  an  income.  Lavenu  did  not  seem  to  have  noticed 
Pere  Elard  until  this  moment;  on  entering  he  had  shaken 
hands  only  with  M.  Badajeze  and  Mademoiselle  Odette. 

"Eh!  Eh!  How  you  go  at  it,  you  young  people !"  the 
old  man  croaked.  "Lucky  there  are  some  white  heads 
still  in  the  world!" 

"We  aren't  the  ones  to  blame,"  the  trooper  protested. 
"If  the  Germans  will  make  trouble,  let  them  look  to 
themselves,  that's  all!  Why,  we  of  the  regular  army  are 
ordered  back  to  our  posts  only  to-day,  and  the  reservists 
aren't  yet  called — whereas  in  Germany  they  are  mobilising, 

143 


144         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

requisitioning,  taking  over  mills,  clearing  railway  plat- 
forms. That  surely  means  business!  And  we  are  so 
afraid  of  putting  ourselves  in  the  wrong  that  we  don't 
even  dare  begin  proper  defensive  measures." 

Mademoiselle  Odette  had  looked  on,  tearful  and  fright- 
ened. 

"  But  why  should  we  fight  over  the  murder  of  a  foreign 
archduke?"  she  demanded.  "Though  Serbians  may  not 
like  what  the  Emperor  of  Austria  says,  and  the  Tsar  may 
promise  to  support  them,  what  has  that  got  to  do  with 
France?" 

"Don't  you  see  Germany  wants  to  sweep  us  off  the  map 
first,  so  as  to  deal  with  Russia  afterwards?  Let  her  try!" 
thundered  Robert  Lavenu.  "I  know  what  our  plans  are, 
and  we  shall  carry  them  out,  too." 

"Much  a  soldier  in  the  ranks  can  know  about  plans," 
sneered  Pere  Elard. 

"We  know  what  our  officers  tell  us,"  Lavenu  returned, 
losing  his  temper.  "You  won't  be  pretending  our  officers 
don't  know,  I  suppose?  And  they  have  been  saying  the 
same  things  to  us  for  more  than  a  year :  'The  Germans  are 
going  to  attack  us  treacherously.  At  the  first  alarm,  it  is 
you  who  will  move  forward  to  hold  the  frontier  until  our 
mobilisation  is  completed.  You  may  die  to  the  last  man, 
but  you  will  be  the  saviours  of  France.  The  nation 
counts  on  you,  my  children.'  Words  like  that  are  an 
inspiration,  I  can  tell  you !  We  didn't  mind  the  hard  work, 
the  deep  snow,  the  bad  quarters,  the  forced  marches,  or 
the  night  alarms,  after  hearing  what  they  meant.  And 
we  hear  it  all  again  whenever  we  get  slack.  I  can  tell 
you,  we,  the  Eastern  troops,  are  ready  to  defend  the 
frontier,  and  enter  Alsace-Lorraine  too,  as  soon  as  Ger- 
many attacks." 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         145 

Pere  Elard  had  leaned  forward,  listening  attentively. 
He  waited,  as  if  expecting  Lavenu  to  continue;  then 
said: 

"You  are  sure  you  won't  go  towards  Belgium?" 

Lavenu  laughed: 

"What  could  our  best  troops  do  up  north?" 

Pere  Elard's  curiosity  was  appeased. 

"  You  do  well  to  talk,  since  you  will  have  no  occasion  to 
act,"  he  said.  "There  will  be  no  war,  because  the  Socialist 
party  will  not  allow  it.  Meetings  in  Germany  have  passed 
resolutions,  and  are  bringing  pressure  to  bear  upon  the 
Government." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  M.  Badajeze. 

"From  the  newspapers.  And  side  by  side  is  news  of  the 
meetings  we  French  Socialists  are  organising.  Manifestos 
are  to  be  published,  too,  warning  the  proletariat  not  to  en- 
courage the  capitalistic  crime  of  war.  We  have  weapons, 
if  they  must  be  used.  If  only  we  work  all  together " 

"We  shall  be  working  for  the  King  of  Prussia!"  con- 
cluded M.  Badajeze,  furiously. 

"Ah!  You  are  a  bad  brother.  I  have  always  heard 
you  were  a  bad  brother."  The  little  old  carpenter — who 
lived  on  an  income — wagged  his  feeble  white  head. 

"  Yes,  I  am — and  I'll  tell  you  why ! "  M.  Badajeze  spoke 
explosively.  "Indeed,  I  am  scarcely  a  brother  at  all, 
since  I  have  seen  the  use  Socialism  has  tried  to  make  of 
France  in  the  interests  of  Germany.  We  had  to  employ 
German  workmen — brotherly  love.  We  had  to  buy 
German  goods — brotherly  love.  We  had  to  make  na- 
tional concessions  and  territorial  sacrifices  to  Germany — 
brotherly  love.  And  what  were  we  getting?  Why,  the 
brotherly  love — of  spies  who  were  taking  our  wealth  from 
us  and  tarnishing  our  honour  and  selling  us  into  the  bar- 


146         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

gain !  We  were  told,  here  in  France,  that  we  could  prevent 
war  by  means  of  strikes  and  insurrection.  Some  went 
to  the  extent  of  saying,  'Use  your  guns  to  shoot  your 
officers  in  the  back,  rather  than  murder  your  German 
brothers.'  But  the  rest,  who  didn't  dare  go  so  far,  said, 
'Strikes  and  insurrection !'  We  asked  if  German  Socialists 
would  do  as  much.  'Certainly,  certainly!'  they  answered. 
But  we  were  ready  to  give  pledges,  and  they  were  not. 
At  three  successive  congresses  of  the  Socialist  party — 
Stuttgart,  Copenhagen,  and  Basle,  if  you  would  know — 
our  delegates  were  ready  to  give  pledges;  but  when  they 
tried  to  get  pledges,  they  failed.  So,  say  I,  our  zealous 
'brothers'  are  preparing  to  deliver  France  tied  and 
wounded  into  the  hands  of  Germany.  But  there  are 
some  of  us  who  know  better,  and  we  must  be  taken  into 
account.  That  is  why  I  am  a  bad  brother,  M.  Elard!" 

"You  are  cowardly,  to  insult  a  man  of  my  years," 
screamed  the  carpenter,  as  he  tottered  out  into  the  street. 
He  slammed  the  door  after  him,  and  the  apprentices 
turned  back  to  their  tasks. 

On  his  way  home,  Paul  was  impressed  by  the  peaceful, 
normal  aspect  of  everything  that  came  within  his  field  of 
vision.  The  shadows  on  the  river — the  trees  rising  be- 
yond— the  men  and  the  women,  and  a  vehicle  or  two  cross- 
ing the  bridge  at  a  leisurely  pace — the  streets,  from 
thoroughfares  to  modest  alleys,  all  as  they  might  be  on  any 
other  day — he  looked  with  renewed  wonder  at  each  of 
these  homely,  comforting  expressions  of  dull,  provincial 
existence  far  from  any  cause  for  excitement.  He  had  no 
idea,  then,  that  he  was  not  again  to  witness  normal  life  in 
Verviller.  The  strange  thing  is  that  he  found  not  pre- 
monition of  impending  doom,  but  conviction  that  all  was 
well,  in  the  vividness  with  which  the  town  demanded  his 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         147 

attention  on  that  last  day  of  its  sweet,  old-fashioned 
serenity. 

The  sun  set  beyond  the  Mareille,  a  ball  of  angry  fire 
glowing  baleful  and  blood-red  on  long  thick  clouds  of  rose 
and  gold. 

"That's  the  dust,"  said  a  voice.  "All  these  carts  and 
carriages  do  it,  hurrying  along  every  road."  The  speaker 
hurried  on,  too. 

Paul,  leaning  upon  the  stone  parapet  of  the  bridge, 
did  not  move  nor  speak.  Of  course  the  roads  were  filled 
with  dust,  and  so  were  the  streets  of  the  town.  Every 
available  vehicle  bore  men  and  women  fervidly  this  way 
or  that.  Yet  dust  was  but  dust.  And  there,  beyond  the 
fields  and  the  woods,  beyond  the  valley  and  the  far  hills, 
beyond  the  world  itself,  the  sun  in  the  heavens  heralded 
the  ordeal  of  fire  with  omens  of  carnage  and  conflagration. 

Because  of  the  contrast,  perhaps,  Paul  thought  of  an- 
other sunset  he  had  watched  from  the  top  of  the  Ripote; 
a  sunset  of  soft  beauty  and  inspiring  flame,  of  peace  and 
security  and  useful  toil.  Ended — all  ended.  There  re- 
mained only  war.  This  very  night,  the  peace  which  still 
hung  over  ignorant  nature  would  be  broken  by  the  roar 
of  trains  bearing  soldiers  and  supplies  for  the  defence  of 
France. 

The  awful  quiet  of  that  blood-red  sunset  came  after 
days  full  of  menace  and  violence.  Wherever  Paul  had 
stopped,  in  crowded  ways  among  people  who  talked  loud 
or  walked  rapidly,  he  had  heard  of  imminent  war  or 
growling  revolution.  The  latter  seemed  nearer  and  more 
to  be  dreaded  than  the  former.  While  the  appetites  of 
the  mob  were  whetted  to  violence,  the  nerves  of  orderly 
citizens  sought  a  sense  of  security  in  hoarding  gold  and 


148         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

silver.  And  none  dared  protest  against  disregard  of  pub- 
lic right,  not  knowing  what  the  morrow  held  nor  whose  law 
would  rule. 

Then  Paul  had  gone  out  on  an  errand  for  M.  Badajeze. 
He  noticed  a  crowd  more  still,  more  earnest,  more  orderly 
and  estimable  than  any  he  had  seen  since  the  gravity  of 
the  international  situation  had  been  known;  fine  black 
jackets  rubbed  against  threadbare  coats  or  workingmen's 
smocks.  All  eyes  were  reading  a  few  lines  written  by  hand 
on  a  bit  of  paper  stuck  against  a  door.  Having  chanced 
to  come  by  at  this  moment,  Paul  learned,  as  they  did, 
from  ink  not  yet  dry,  that  the  order  for  general  mobilisa- 
tion was  signed. 

A  policeman  stood  there ;  in  friendly  tones  he  repeated : 

"Come!    Move  on!     Read,  and  let  others  read!" 

The  crowd,  swollen  at  every  instant  but  with  each  face 
calm  and  earnest  like  those  gone  before,  like  those  pressing 
after,  read  and  moved  on. 

Regardless  of  class  or  education,  the  comments  made 
were  the  same,  varying  only  in  their  expressions : 

"  Of  course !  Germany  had  declared  the  state  of  menace 
of  war.  She  could  mobilise  completely  before  acknowl- 
edging it." 

"That  meant  her  whole  army  could  strike  while  only 
our  protective  detachments  would  be  at  the  frontier." 

"We  can't  be  called  the  aggressors.  But  at  least  we 
shall  be  in  a  position  to  defend  ourselves." 

"Yes;  if  necessary." 

That  word  of  hopeful  doubt  never  failed.  Prompt 
measures  were  vitally  essential  against  a  possible  aggres- 
sion so  often  threatened  that  it  must  come  some  day.  But 
none  could  genuinely  believe  the  hour  to  be  present.  The 
Government  itself  did  not  appear  to  believe.  While  all 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         149 

Verviller  lay  under  the  spell  of  such  news,  did  not  a  proc- 
lamation come  declaring  that  negotiations  continued? 

Verily,  France  wished  peace.  The  fact  stood  out  from 
many  remarks  Paul  heard  when  men  stopped  to  analyse 
public  affairs.  Yet  an  expression  in  the  faces  of  all  proved 
them  willing  to  meet  the  war,  whatever  the  odds.  There 
was  no  sentiment  of  relief  that  the  storm  should  break  at 
last,  stopping  long-protracted  flashes  and  thunders.  But 
if  relief  was  absent,  courage  and  determination  lay  re- 
vealed on  all  sides,  in  every  pose  and  gesture,  in  every  in- 
flexion of  the  voice.  A  united  sentiment  of  simple, 
noble  duty  swayed  the  race  which,  one  hour  before,  had 
thought  singly  of  comforts  and  privileges. 

Over  Verviller  lay  an  intense  hush  filled  with  muffled 
echoes  of  distant  feet  and  of  speeding  wheels.  So  the 
night  passed,  and  all  the  next  day,  with  eager  inquiries 
for  news  which  did  not  come,  with  hasty  preparations 
many  of  which  might  never  serve,  with  patient  waiting 
for  the  end  to  be  reached  in  moments  each  in  itself  too 
short. 

And  now,  under  cover  of  the  approaching  night,  the 
great  movement  must  begin  by  which  France  would  say 
to  the  world,  "I  am  ready." 

Impressive  as  was  the  thought,  and  active  as  had  been 
the  day,  Paul  felt  calmer  than  when  reading  the  bit  of 
paper  stuck  to  the  door,  the  previous  afternoon.  For  then 
it  had  all  seemed  so  unreal  as  to  be  terrifying — and  it  had 
grown  so  real  as  to  be  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 
It  was  inevitable  as  the  course  through  space  of  the  sun 
itself,  with  its  train  of  planets  and  satellites  and  fragments 
of  dead  stars. 

The  town,  as  darkness  grew  closer,  became  still  and 
deserted.  A  town  of  the  dead,  without  objective  for 


150         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

chance  wanderers.  No  life — few  lights — only  distant 
sounds.  The  beat  of  a  stray  step  would  seem  to  fill  with 
echoes  all  the  plain  of  the  Mareille.  And  then  those 
echoes  would  weaken  away,  ever  in  one  same  direction, 
as  if  sucked  to  the  vortex  by  a  force  each  heart  must  feel 
and  obey — the  force  of  humanity  breathing,  and  thinking, 
and  suffering,  pressed  close  together  before  parting. 

In  the  crowd  about  the  station,  where  every  resident  of 
Verviller  and  all  the  surrounding  peasantry,  too,  seemed 
gathered,  Paul  worked  his  way  forward.  The  entrance 
was  held  by  policemen  and  soldiers,  and  barriers  had  been 
put  up;  earlier  in  the  evening,  it  was  said,  people  had 
forced  passages  and  got  in;  very  strict  orders  had  been 
given,  and  the  guards  reinforced :  those  without  must  stay 
out. 

Counting,  with  the  confidence  of  youth,  on  part-luck, 
part-resourcefulness,  Paul  persisted.  Bending  in  and  out 
under  people's  elbows,  across  the  small  of  their  backs,  or 
brazenly  into  any  diminutive  space  allowed  for  breathing, 
he  advanced  inch  by  inch.  Observing  no  one  and  thinking 
of  naught  but  the  care  needed  for  his  movements,  he 
found  that  none  noticed  him.  Boys  and  even  a  man 
or  two  were  roundly  cursed,  within  a  yard  of  him,  for 
causing  less  inconvenience  and  gaining  less  ground  than 
himself,  while  he  passed  unseen.  Keeping  his  thought 
detached,  he  was  aware  as  of  a  panorama  slipping  slowly 
past  him,  inch  after  inch. 

Very  quiet,  very  orderly,  this  crowd,  with  practically 
nothing  to  say.  Generalities  were  no  longer  mentioned; 
none  seemed  to  care  how  the  war  had  come,  nor  why. 

From  the  station,  shrill  screams  of  whistles  resounded 
through  the  town.  Soon  the  rhythm  of  heavy  feet  tramp- 
ing in  unison  rose  from  the  stones.  A  body  of  young  men 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         151 

came  marching  as  if  already  in  uniform.  Of  one  age  and 
actuated  by  one  sentiment,  they  were  of  varied  conditions 
— or  rather,  they  had  been,  for  France  knew  no  more  such 
distinctions  as  trade  or  business  or  aristocracy.  Mur- 
murs of  confidence,  in  a  tone  of  benediction,  followed  these 
boys;  they,  smiling  yet  serious,  would  call  back  an  oc- 
casional word.  Twice  or  thrice,  the  beat  of  something 
said  in  chorus  might  be  caught.  None  of  the  boasting, 
none  of  the  challenge,  none  of  the  recklessness  which  had 
heralded  olden  disasters  was  conveyed  by  this  hope  too 
sacred  to  be  cried  out,  and  deep-rooted  so  as  to  endure. 
The  new  war  was  beginning  without  wild  cheers  or  historic 
phrase,  but  with  hearts  determined  instead  of  light,  and 
necessaries  attended  to  instead  of  gaiter-buttons. 

That  the  future  soldiers  might  reach  the  station,  the 
crowd  fell  back,  urged  on  by  the  police.  Paul  was  hugged 
so  tight  between  two  men  that  he  left  the  ground  and 
stayed  suspended  for  a  moment.  He  fought  to  regain  his 
footing  before  a  loosening  of  this  pressure  should  let  him 
fall,  perhaps  to  be  trampled  upon.  As  he  freed  himself, 
he  stumbled  forward.  Accident,  and  the  position  to 
which  he  had  methodically  worked  his  way,  put  him  in  the 
first  line.  Among  those  passing,  he  recognised  Marcel 
Lavenu.  Paul  grasped  his  arm,  and  was  swept  on.  A 
minute  later,  he  was  beyond  the  barriers,  and  in  the  sta- 
tion. 

"You  coming?"  Marcel  whispered  excitedly. 

"Coming — where?"  Paul  tried  to  suppress  his  voice, 
yet  was  so  thrilled  that  it  escaped  him. 

"Hush !    To  fight,  of  course." 

"No!    How  could  I?" 

"lam." 

"You  can't.    You're  only  six  months  older  than  L" 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Sixty  years  older,  you  mean!  Going  to  fight,  I  tell 
you.  How  can  you  bear  to  stay  behind?  " 

"  But  Marcel — they  are  refusing  enlistments  from  classes 
to  be  called  later." 

"That's  why  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  any  of  them.  I 
slipped  in  here — and  got  you  in,  besides.  You  don't 
deny  that,  do  you?  Well!  I'm  going  to  slip  into  the 
train,  just  the  same  way.  And  when  we  get  to  the  front, 
if  I  don't  find  soldiers  to  supply  me  with  a  cast-off  uni- 
form, and  a  gun  and  a  cartridge-belt,  then  we're  all  un- 
worthy of  the  name  of  Frenchmen!  If  you  come  along, 
I'll  see  you're  cared  for,  too.  Will  you?  " 

The  "Yes"  was  on  Paul's  lips — he  throbbed  under  the 
mightiest  elation  of  his  life — when  Duty  laid  her  marble 
hand  upon  him,  turning  him  cold  and  sick. 

"Father's  off  in  a  few  days,  and  I  must  support  mother," 
he  said  weakly.  "You  haven't  got  anybody  dependent 
on  you,  Marcel." 

"  What  does  that  matter?  "  the  other  flared.  "  The  war 
can't  last  more  than  three  or  four  weeks;  if  Germany 
doesn't  win  at  the  first  blow — and  we  won't  let  her  do 

that — then  she'll  starve.  For  such  a  family  as  yours " 

He  saw  the  pain  and  the  anger  which  swept  Paul's  face; 
changing  tone  suddenly,  he  said:  "Don't  let's  quarrel. 
Do  what  you  please.  You  may  be  right — for  you.  I'm 
right  for  me,  anyhow." 

Paul  grasped  his  hand. 

"I  don't  wish  you  good  luck,  because  that  brings  bad." 
The  stock  phrase  of  his  highly  modernised  anti-clerical 
school,  where  boys  were  conscientiously  rid  of  "religious 
superstition,"  had  returned  to  him.  "But — here's  to  our 
meeting  again  in  Verviller." 

Mentally  he  added,  "  Sooner  than  you  suppose."    Marcel 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         153 

would  not  get  far  in  this  mad-cap  scheme.  Many  people 
had  gained  access  to  the  station;  but  reaching  the  plat- 
forms and  the  trains  would  be  another  question.  The 
wave  of  exultation  at  the  thought  of  being  in  the  ranks, 
of  wearing  the  French  uniform,  of  playing  his  part  with 
gun  and  bayonet  (which  he  did  not  know  how  to  use)  had 
subsided.  He  had  a  duty  too,  of  a  humbler  kind,  without 
praise  or  glory  or  even  credit  attached.  To  run  away  from 
one  kind  of  obligation  was  as  shameful  as  to  run  away  from 
any  other.  What  was  the  good  of  discipline  in  war,  if  the 
soldiers  of  the  future  did  not  obey  orders? 

Thanks  to  enterprise  such  as  Paul  had  shown,  or  to 
special  influence,  or  to  privileges  as  relatives  of  soldiers 
about  to  leave,  many  had  got  into  the  entrance  and  waiting 
room.  The  Marquis  de  Vervillers  and  Frere  Alexandre 
were  among  the  first  Paul  recognised;  the  nobleman  clap- 
ping workmen  on  the  back  and  talking  cordially  with 
them,  the  Brother  more  gently  but  no  less  eloquently 
showing  that  lines  of  party  and  religion  were  smoothed 
away  like  those  of  caste  and  prejudice.  Presently  Pere 
Elard,  the  Socialist  carpenter  who  lived  on  an  income, 
was  holding  the  Marquis  by  the  edge  of  his  sleeve,  while 
Frere  Alexandre  was  all  but  embraced  by  the  Communal 
school-teacher,  alleged  to  be  a  rabid  priest-baiter.  A 
dashing  young  lieutenant,  in  perfectly  tailored  uniform, 
saluted  a  fat,  dowdy  captain.  The  inferior  was  the  Comte 
de  Vervillers,  son  and  heir  to  the  Marquis;  the  superior 
was  a  local  bricklayer.  The  two  shook  hands,  and  began 
to  talk;  Paul  learned  that  they  were  officers  of  reserves  in 
the  same  regiment.  Perfect  understanding  reigned  be- 
tween them. 

Suddenly  jarred  from  behind,  Paul  looked  around. 
Andre  Manadan,  terrified,  shrank  away.  Paul  said, 


154         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  me — I'm  French!"  Yes,  there  was 
something  contagious,  inspiring,  in  the  very  air  they 
breathed. 

Gates  were  opened.  A  few  last  embraces;  a  cheer  more 
subdued  and  holier  than  all  the  rest;  a  larger  number  of 
tearful  faces,  with  more  resolute  efforts  to  hide  traces  of 
weakness — and  it  was  over. 

Marcel  Lavenu  had  melted  away  in  the  throng. 

Filled  with  surpassing  loneliness,  Paul  looked  out  from 
his  window,  after  returning  home.  Long  darts  of  flame, 
clear  as  the  streak  of  a  sword,  shone  upon  the  silvered 
thread  of  steel  tracks  and  plunged  forward,  endlessly 
forward,  leaving  in  their  wake  brief  blotches  of  blackness 
which  also  travelled  on  and  on,  while  new  flames,  new  long 
clear  streaks  rushed  close  after.  When  his  eyes  grew 
used  to  the  great  skimming  head-lights,  he  saw  that  the 
blackness  following  them  was  alight  also;  not  brilliant,  not 
continual,  but  evanescent  as  glow-worms.  And  the  roar 
that  went  with  each  troop-train,  dying  away  as  softly  as  it 
began,  yet  dominated  ever  by  the  rumbling,  the  grinding, 
the  speeding  that  came  abreast,  was  like  unceasing  thun- 
der in  rock-caverns  by  the  sea. 

II 

WITHIN  the  week,  Verviller  took  on  a  new  aspect.  There 
was  no  room  for  sadness  nor  loneliness.  The  streets  were 
thronged  with  soldiers;  the  avenues  impassable  with 
horses  tied  to  trees.  Nothing  to  eat  could  be  bought  at 
any  hotel  or  restaurant;  but  numberless  untenanted  shops 
had  been  transformed  into  places  where  light  wines  or 
beer,  and  syrups  and  coffee  were  sold.  The  troops  had 
been  divided  up  among  all  the  flats  and  houses  in  town; 
where  residents  were  present  a  certain  amount  of  space 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         155 

was  left  for  their  use,  where  they  were  absent  the  authori- 
ties broke  in  the  doors  and  took  possession. 

Thirty  troopers  and  a  sergeant  were  quartered  upon 
Paul's  mother,  his  father  having  already  gone  to  the  front. 
The  men  slept  on  hay  all  over  the  hall,  and  upstairs ;  caps, 
belts,  bayonets,  hung  from  every  knob  or  nail.  Very  dis- 
creet, very  orderly,  talking  low,  they  were  giving  their 
first  proof  of  discipline  in  obedience  to  commands  that 
they  should  not  disturb  unnecessarily  those  among  whom 
they  were  billeted.  Paul's  grandparents  had  come 
from  Arnan,  and  the  two  rooms  on  the  ground-floor  had 
been  left  to  the  family.  If  Paul  regretted  his  window, 
he  was  happy  to  sleep  in  the  kitchen  and  leave  his  room 
to  French  soldiers. 

Madame  Clermont  grew  almost  gay,  and  looked  to  her 
toilet  once  more.  She  would  stand  for  an  hour  at  a 
time,  chatting  with  the  men.  There  were  of  all  kinds 
among  them,  but  mostly  shopkeepers  and  employes.  One 
trooper  turned  out  to  be  the  proprietor  of  a  large  Parisian 
bakery — closed,  because  he  and  all  his  staff  were  called 
out.  His  comrades-in-arms  were  similarly  embarrassed. 
But  they  seemed  to  have  only  one  idea — to  reach  the 
frontier  and  fight  quickly  and  be  rid  once  for  all  of  German 
threats. 

"What  I  want  most  is  to  fight;  and  next,  to  know  what 
chance  we  really  stand,"  the  baker  said  one  morning  to 
Madame  Clermont.  "Because  if  we  don't  crush  the 
Germans  so  as  to  have  done  with  them  for  ever,  then 
they'll  begin  this  over  again." 

Another  trooper  listened,  young,  dark,  handsome, 
and  aristocratic  in  spite  of  his  heavy -wear,  ill-fitting  uni- 
form, with  his  collar  unbuttoned  over  a  throat  as  fair  and 
smooth  as  a  woman's.  The  medal  with  his  matriculation 


156         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

number  hung  by  a  leather  thong  round  his  neck;  he  kept 
caressing  it,  and  nodded  occasional  approbation. 

The  woman  made  a  breezy  remark  about  the  Allied 
forces.  With  Russians,  Belgians,  English  to  be  added  to 
the  French 

The  baker  looked  doubtful;  the  handsome,  dark  young 
trooper  pursed  his  clean-shaven,  finely  chiselled  lips,  and 
tossed  the  medal  rather  more  energetically. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  the  baker  burst  out.  "But  this 
is  our  own  fight.  We're  glad  of  their  help,  but  we  don't 
count  on  anybody  besides  ourselves.  Only,  we  must 
win!" 

At  which  the  young  aristocrat's  handsome,  olive-skinned 
face  cleared,  and  he  let  the  medal  fly  back  to  its  place 
under  his  tunic. 

"That's  the  spirit  which  does  it!"  said  Madame  Cler- 
mont  in  her  high,  guttural  voice. 

Although  the  baker  alone  had  spoken,  she  had  not  ad- 
dressed him.  Her  eulogy,  like  her  smiles,  went  to  the 
dark  young  trooper. 

Paul,  who  had  stood  by  watching  and  listening,  flushed 
and  went  out. 

Not  much  time  was  allowed  him.  The  breaking  of 
numerous  locks  on  the  eve  of  mobilisation,  and  the  damage 
since  done  by  heavy  soldier  hands,  had  caused  his  trade 
to  be  the  most  thriving  in  the  region,  after  that  of  coffee- 
sellers  and  hair-cutters.  Beginning  promptly  at  six, 
he  ended  sometimes  after  eight;  but,  as  a  junior  workman, 
was  now  paid  accordingly.  The  apprentices  looked 
up  with  awe  to  their  promoted  elder;  the  more  so  since  the 
bibulous  compagnon  was  mobilised,  leaving  Paul  next  in 
authority  to  M.  Badajeze  himself. 

Under  the  stress  of  prevailing  excitement  and  of  the 


THE  GIFT  OP  PAUL  CLERMONT         157 

numerous  calls  from  all  sides,  the  artistic  locksmith  had 
grown  more  than  ever  convinced  of  his  importance. 

"I  have  told  you,"  he  harangued  the  boys  on  several 
occasions — because  he  repeated  himself,  did  worthy  M. 
Badajeze — "  I  have  told  you  that  wars  would  be  ended  only 
when  my  trade  should  no  longer  be  needed  by  mankind. 
Well !  You  perceive  now  that  wars  cause  me  to  be  needed 
far  more  than  ever!" 

The  apprentices  grinned.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they 
and  the  junior  workman  were  the  ones  needed,  these 
repairs  were  so  simple. 

With  most  of  the  town  and  its  neighbourhood,  the  rule 
was  to  attend  only  to  what  might  be  essential.  People 
preferred  to  have  doors  that  would  lock,  even  though  they 
had  soldiers  to  lodge.  Paul  visited  many  homes,  from 
the  grandest  to  the  humblest,  and  learned  to  know  Ver- 
viller  in  an  intimate  way.  He  had  no  other  diversion. 
His  grandfather  had  fallen  into  a  state  of  virtual  im- 
becility, his  grandmother  was  a  hopelessly  crippled  rheu- 
matic who  could  only  whine  about  her  "pains";  Marcel 
Lavenu  had  not  reappeared,  and  the  apprentices  were  of 
a  nature  so  different  from  his  that  intimacy  could  not 
exist;  M.  Aubret  had  gone  to  Paris  about  a  passport,  and 
had  been  unable  to  return. 

At  least  a  score  of  windows  demanded  attention  at  the 
enormous  chateau;  the  Marquis  accommodated  ten.  or 
twelve  officers  in  his  best  rooms,  and  put  an  entire  wing 
at  the  disposal  of  the  soldiery.  The  old  gentleman  was 
stirring  up  all  the  influence  he  could  command  in  France, 
.  to  be  restored  to  the  rank  of  captain  he  had  once  held, 
and  from  hour  to  hour  he  hoped  to  hear  the  good  news. 
He  sent  for  Paul,  and  patted  him  on  the  shoulder,  asking 
what  had  become  of  M.  Aubret  and  laughing  at  the  same 


158         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

time;  and  finally  dismissed  the  boy  with  a  five-franc  tip. 
The  taking  of  tips  always  humiliated  Paul;  he  had  refused 
them,  at  first,  and  been  rated  for  this  "stupidity"  by  the 
compagnon,  who  said  he  not  only  spoiled  the  business  but 
offended  clients — which  Paul  perceived  to  be  true.  So  he 
tried  to  get  used  to  the  feeling,  and  his  mother  found  the 
money  entirely  acceptable.  But  this  tip  hurt  more  than 
any  he  had  ever  taken — though  silver  had  grown  scarce. 

The  Marquis  had  also  ordered  work  done  at  the  school- 
house,  which  had  been  converted  into  veritable  barracks. 
Since  new  troops  were  pouring  in  steadily,  only  the  lock  on 
Frere  Alexandre's  door  was  seen  to.  Paul  found  the 
Brother  oldened  and  saddened,  and  he  listened  to  the 
beginning  of  a  homily  on  Christian  virtues  and  the  duty 
of  the  labouring  classes.  Something  of  the  old  childish 
reverence  and  almost  love  for  Frere  Alexandre  survived 
even  now. 

One  day,  as  he  passed  through  the  rue  du  Port,  Leonie 
rushed  out,  screaming;  and  on  the  pretext  of  a  broken  key, 
brought  him  in  to  the  house  and  bade  him  "look."  The 
spectacle  turned  him  quite  sick,  he  acknowledged  later. 
Even  my  study  had  been  stacked  with  straw,  and  my 
drawing-room  chairs,  pulled  close  together,  had  served 
as  beds;  pictures  everywhere  were  racks  for  bayonets  and 
other  tools  of  war.  But  no  damage  was  done,  and 
not  an  article  was  gone. 

Soldiers  came,  soldiers  went;  the  old  were  replaced  by 
new,  who  in  turn  became  old  before  going  in  turn;  and  so 
day  succeeded  day  in  a  town  no  longer  Verviller,  but  ac- 
tive, happy,  triumphant. 

One  morning,  the  streets  were  filled  with  marching 
companies,  off  to  the  front;  and  none  came  in  their  stead. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         159 

The  men  regularly  mobilised  were  all  equipped  and  dis- 
posed of;  Verviller  should  not  see  further  troops  for  the 
present,  though  convoys  of  wounded  might  be  expected. 
The  waiting-room  at  the  station  was  converted  into  an 
ambulance; the  former  convent, closed  by  the  Government 
but  belonging  to  the  Marquis,  was  opened  as  a  bandage- 
room  by  the  Marquise,  a  stout,  black-haired,  pleasant- 
looking  lady,  with  a  grey-hued  complexion  and  very  red 
lips,  who  gravely  used  long-handled  glasses.  Many 
young  ladies  from  the  town  made  bandages  there;  Made- 
moiselle Odette,  too,  had  been  admitted. 

If  her  hours  in  the  dining-room  were  scarce,  Paul  thrilled 
only  the  more  when  he  caught  glimpses  of  the  brown  hair, 
or  heard  her  delightful  voice,  whether  or  not  words  could 
be  distinguished. 

She  was  always  very  patriotic,  exulting  at  each  report  of 
victory;  her  father,  good-humouredly  confident,  laughed 
whenever  she  talked. 

"  You  should  be  the  last  to  rejoice,"  he  told  her.  "After 
the  war,  you  may  have  trouble  in  finding  a  sound  hus- 
band." 

"I  shall  marry  none  but  a  wounded  hero!"  she  declared. 
"Only  yesterday,  the  girls  at  the  bandage-room  were  dis- 
cussing that,  and  we  all  vowed  to  marry  glorious  mutilated 
men.  The  thing  we  couldn't  agree  about  was  what  kind 
of  maiming  made  the  best  husband.  Some  of  the  girls 
preferred  a  blind  man,  who  could  not  watch  them  too 
closely.  None  wanted  an  armless  man,  as  a  matter  of 
choice,  you  know,  because  he  would  need  so  very  much 
care;  though  he  couldn't  slap  his  wife.  I  myself  would 
most  willingly  take  a  man  without  legs;  he  could  be  set  up 
in  a  corner,  so  as  to  give  really  very  little  trouble,  and  when 
I  said  to  him  'Be  good!'  he  wouldn't  dare  refuse!" 


160         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

For  the  first  time,  Paul  was  able  to  think,  without  a 
nauseating  horror,  of  the  mutilations  of  battle.  To  be 
cared  for  by  Mademoiselle  Odette — even  to  be  set  up 
in  a  corner  by  her,  if  one  were  reduced  to  a  human 
trunk — would  be  adequate  reward  for  sufferings  and  pri- 
vations. And  though  blind,  the  memory  of  her  voice 
would  cheer  the  darkness  of  eternal  night  and  of  infinite 
isolation. 

Pere  Elard,  who  had  rallied  from  his  anger  and  had 
again  grown  assiduous  in  calling  here  as  elsewhere,  shook 
his  dried  old  head  dolefully: — 

"Eh!  Eh!  I  fear  you  may  have  occasion  to  be  as  good 
as  your  word,  Mademoiselle  Odette;  and  you  will  have 
many  victims  to  select  among.  Don't  be  deceived  by  these 
skirmishes  hi  Alsace.  The  war  has  not  begun,  for  our 
troops  have  not  yet  met  the  Prussians.  I,  who  fought 
them  in  1870,  know  what  they  are.  These  days  we  have 
been  beating  only  the  shoddy  edges  of  the  German  army, 
the  Bavarian  and  Wurtemburgian  riff-raff.  Until  we 
have  beaten  the  Prussians  themselves,  we  must  not  think 
we  are  safe — and  we  can't  beat  them." 

"Enough  of  such  croaking!"  M.  Badajeze  thundered. 
"Keep  to  yourself  the  chills  of  your  sluggish  old  blood — 
and  let  young,  virile  France  rejoice! " 

"While  she  can,"  Pere  Elard  muttered  between  his 
stumps  of  teeth  as  he  hobbled  away. 

The  town  still  thrilled  with  stories  of  victory,  when 
refugees  began  to  arrive  with  rumours  of  reverse.  None 
could  be  so  unpatriotic  as  to  credit  them.  Only  when 
wounded  soldiers  at  the  station  brought,  with  their  martial 
prestige,  confirmation  worse  than  the  first  reports,  did 
people  consent  to  believe.  Then  refugees  arrived  with 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         161 

evidence  which  could  not  be  questioned.  All  destitute, 
all  with  drawn  faces  and  wide,  red  eyes,  they  were  scat- 
tered along  the  roads,  pressing  towards  the  west  and  cry- 
ing out  their  fear  of  the  hordes  wreaking  death  and 
destruction  which  followed  close  upon  their  heels.  It  was 
from  desolate  mothers  and  grandparents  that  France  knew 
fully  of  the  catastrophe  which  threatened.  It  was  by 
them  that  the  nation's  calm  of  dignity  was  changed  to  that 
awful,  inspiring  calm  of  stolid  despair  which  will  remain 
ever  revered  and  unforgotten  by  those  who  endured  or 
witnessed  it. 

An  order  came  for  the  wounded  to  be  evacuated  from 
Verviller.  Next,  word  was  brought  that  the  last  west- 
bound train  would  leave  that  night;  civilians  were  urged 
to  go  before  the  bridges  over  the  Mareille  should  be  blown 
up.  The  rumbling  of  cannon  had  been  heard  for  some 
days,  intermittently;  it  became  so  loud  and  so  customary 
that  its  rhythm  seemed  to  beat  with  the  town's  very  life. 
A  fair  number  of  people  left.  The  Marquis  de  Vervillers 
decided  to  go,  as  his  last  hope  for  reaching  the  front,  via 
Paris;  and  the  Marquise,  whose  utility  had  been  destroyed 
by  the  closing  of  the  station  ambulance,  accompanied  him. 
She  wished  to  take  Odette  Badajeze,  among  other  girls; 
but  the  artistic  locksmith  stoutly  refused. 

"I  shall  know  how  to  defend  my  daughter,"  he  said. 

The  same  sentiment  was  echoed  in  many  breasts.  Peo- 
ple felt  that  they  should  stay  to  protect  their  property; 
and  while  they  could  no  longer  deny  the  crimes  com- 
mitted against  civilians,  they  held  individual  soldiers 
responsible.  Who  had  not  heard  of  Teutonic  educational 
methods  and  philosophical  ideas?  And  who,  after  knowing 
of  them,  could  fail  to  believe  in  the  good  behaviour  of 
masses  brought  up  under  such  influences? 


162         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Pere  Elard,  more  of  a  pessimist  than  ever,  opined  that 
everybody  ought  to  go;  but  he  himself  did  not  purpose 
moving. 

"Though  the  town  be  taken,  we  shall  be  protected,  if 
we  behave  in  an  orderly  manner,"  said  M.  Badajeze.  "If 
a  drunken  soldier  insults  my  daughter,  I  shall  kill  him. 
Any  officer  who  is  a  man  will  support  me." 

"Eh!  Eh!"  croaked  the  old  carpenter.  "You  don't 
understand  that  these  atrocities  we  hear  about,  this  whole 
system  of  terrorisation,  are  part  of  the  German  strategic 
plan.  I  remember  how,  in  '70,  French  sharp-shooters 
saved  many  a  village,  since  the  enemy  could  not  know  who 
was  firing  nor  in  what  numbers;  and  how  civilians  doing 
scout  duty,  called  spying  by  the  Germans,  rendered  con- 
siderable services  to  our  army.  The  object  of  the  present 
methods  is  to  stop  all  that,  and  also  to  block  the  roads 
with  refugees  and  their  carts  and  cattle,  so  that  the  move- 
ments of  our  troops  may  be  impeded.  It  has  been  a 
success  from  both  points  of  view — and  our  press  has 
foolishly  spread  the  news,  which  was  just  what  the  Ger- 
mans wanted!" 

"I  can  suppose  a  drunken  soldier  capable  of  any  outrage, 
and  I  admit  the  contagion  of  example,"  said  M.  Badajeze. 
"But  I  deny  that  educated  officers  of  any  race  would 
deliberately  execute  coldly  framed  orders  for  wholesale 
infamies." 

The  old  carpenter  (who  lived  on  an  income)  was  very 
active,  at  that  period;  here  and  everywhere  in  the  streets, 
and  calling  at  all  the  houses  he  knew.  Paul,  whose  work- 
shop now  closed  at  four  and  might  almost  as  well  have 
closed  permanently,  would  run  across  him  in  the  most  un- 
expected places.  Once  he  even  met  him  on  the  top  of  the 
Ripote,  with  a  rake.  Pere  Elard  explained  he  was  after 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         163 

some  sort  of  roots,  and  seemed  very  cross  about  it;  asked 
what  Paul  did  there,  and  went  away  grumbling,  straight 
home,  without  the  roots. 

That  very  day,  hostile  aeroplanes  flew  over  Verviller, 
dropping  bombs.  The  next,  Paul  caught  sight  of  the  first 
troops,  retreating  and  stopping,  but  always  fighting,  with 
such  a  support  of  artillery  that  the  ground  shook  where  he 
stood. 

The  Battle  of  Verviller,  so  long  announced  by  the  can- 
non and  prophesied  by  refugees,  began  that  night. 

Ill 

"THE  house  trembled  and  jumped  every  second  or  two, 
and  the  roaring  never  seemed  to  stop.  A  few  shells  fell 
in  the  town,  and  bits  of  broken  glass  were  scattered  over 
the  streets.  But  all  that  mattered  to  us  was  the  noise. 
As  night  wore  on,  and  it  grew  worse,  we  stuffed  mattresses, 
pillows,  blankets,  overcoats,  everything  we  could  find, 
against  the  doors  and  windows.  We  didn't  care  what 
might  happen,  you  understand;  it  was  the  noise  we  couldn't 
endure  any  longer.  When  we  had  muffled  it  just  a  little, 
we  stretched  out  on  the  bare  floor,  all  dressed,  and  felt — 
well — perhaps  it's  not  going  too  far  to  say  'happy.'  Being 
killed  wasn't  anything,  provided  we  got  relief  from  that 
maddening  roar." 

Paul  spoke  thus,  lying  on  my  bed  at  the  Hotel  de  File 
de  France,  in  Paris.  Worn,  haggard,  exhausted,  he  rested 
limply  with  wide-staring  eyes  and  a  helpless  arm  and  both 
feet  bandaged.  Two  officers  had  found  him  on  the  high- 
road, stupefied  by  hunger,  exposure,  physical  effort,  and 
moral  suffering.  In  answer  to  their  first  questions,  he 
repeated  dully,  again  and  again : 

"They  said  I  was  to  go  to  Paris — Tell  what  I  had  seen — 


164         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

How  they  burned  and  killed  and  mutilated — They  would- 
n't kill  me — They  tied  me  up  and  held  me — Wanted  you 
to  know  what  you  should  expect  when  they  get  to  you — 
Threw  me  out  of  town,  on  the  road  to  Paris — Said  I  was  to 
come  and  tell  what  they  made  me  see " 

The  French  officers  observed  that  there  were  safer 
places  than  Paris,  and  tried  to  start  him  in  a  new  direction. 
When  he  insisted  that  he  must  go  on,  they  thought  him 
a  prey  to  German  suggestion  about  telling  what  he  had 
seen.  Out  of  very  kindness  they  used  their  authority  to 
declare  he  should  go  no  farther.  This  roused  him  from 
the  stupor  into  which  he  had  fallen.  The  repetition  of 
ghastly  phrases  ceased,  and  he  told  them  briefly  that  his 
family  had  been  slaughtered,  save  for  his  father  who  was 
somewhere  with  the  army,  if  not  killed;  his  only  friend,  a 
sort  of  guardian,  was  in  Paris.  Struck  by  his  story  or  his 
pathetic  plight,  or  else  perhaps  impressed  by  the  boy 
himself,  the  officers  lent  him  money  and  gave  full  directions 
for  reaching  me.  And  so  he  tottered  in  to  the  hotel,  one 
afternoon,  with  an  arm  stiff  from  a  neglected  bullet- 
scratch,  his  feet  torn  and  bruised,  his  clothes  ragged  and 
gruesomely  stained. 

Upon  getting  to  a  bed,  he  fell  into  a  protracted  sleep; 
woke  only  to  eat,  and  then  slept  again;  remained  speech- 
less for  some  hours,  staring  wide-eyed  at  the  ceiling;  and 
finally,  without  question  from  me,  began  to  talk. 

The  fighting  had  centred  round  the  Ripote.  French 
infantrymen  had  stubbornly  held  it;  because  of  the  steep 
incline,  their  artillery  had  cooperated  from  villages  in  the 
plain.  Leaving  detachments  to  carry  the  heights  with 
bayonets,  the  Germans  swept  on,  driving  before  them  the 
bulk  of  the  French  army  in  that  region.  The  enemy's 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          165 

heavy  artillery  divided  its  attention  between  the  Ripote 
and  the  town. 

The  aim  seemed  rather  wild;  the  church-steeple  and  the 
chateau,  the  clearest  marks  of  all,  were  not  touched.  The 
former  convent  and  bandage-room,  however,  which  had 
been  hastily  organised  as  an  ambulance,  was  struck;  from 
every  five  shells  which  reached  the  town,  two  or  three  fell 
near  there. 

Mademoiselle  Badajeze  had  returned  to  her  post;  many 
women  and  girls  worked  on  fearlessly,  without  supervision 
but  in  complete  harmony.  One  shell  pierced  the  roof  and 
burst  in  a  ward,  killing  a  nurse  and  several  patients. 

"Take  down  the  Red  Cross  flag!"  some  one  shouted. 

"What  good  will  that  do,  now  they  have  their  aim?" 
cried  Mademoiselle  Badajeze,  who  knew  from  her  father 
what  was  to  be  expected.  "Find  men,  move  the  wounded 
anywhere  far  from  here — and  then  don't  hoist  the  flag  on 
our  new  shelter ! " 

While  zealous  hands  carried  the  helpless  soldiers  away, 
and  those  who  could  crawled  in  the  wake  of  the  others, 
the  apprentice  Ernest,  become  an  ambulance  scout,  im- 
provised a  flag-staff  and  hoisted  the  Red  Cross  emblem  on 
a  deserted  shed  covering  only  plough-shares.  Within 
an  hour,  the  very  plough-shares  were  pounded  to  scrap- 
iron. 

Of  those  who  had  stoutly  refused  to  leave  town,  declar- 
ing they  would  brave  danger  while  none  was  present,  a 
few  began  now  to  scatter  over  the  country.  Troops  were 
pouring  through  Verviller,  on  their  way  to  positions  chosen 
along  the  course  of  the  Mareille.  Soldiers,  grimy  and 
gore-stained,  with  scorched  faces  and  broken  voices, 
rasped  out  their  advice  to  non-combatants:  "Better  stay 
where  you  are — safer  than  elsewhere."  Those  bent  on 


166         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

fleeing  were  too  terrified  to  listen;  the  soldiers,  too  battle- 
mad  to  mind:  having  spoken,  they  would  gasp,  "  A  boire  /" 
and  gulp  down  whatever  was  offered,  water  or  wine. 

While  the  French  were  in  the  act  of  concentrating,  the 
Germans  appeared  on  the  high-road  crossing  the  plain, 
along  whose  whiteness  an  oily  spot  of  grey  spread  swiftly, 
immeasurably.  The  French  artillery  opened  a  fire 
whose  double  object  was  to  retard  this  advance  and  to 
defend  Verviller.  The  Germans  trained  heavy  guns  no 
longer  on  an  inoffensive  town,  but  on  villages  whence  the 
French  were  firing  with  seventy-fives,  and  against  the 
infantry  filling  a  large  part  of  the  plain.  Huge  shells  would 
fall  within  a  few  yards  of  each  other,  tearing,  killing, 
demoralising. 

Then  it  was  that  the  noise  within  the  town  became  wild, 
maddening,  unendurable. 

The  French  slept  upon  their  positions,  officers  and  men 
casting  themselves  down  where  they  had  stood,  as  soon  as 
darkness,  broken  only  by  bursting  shells,  made  further 
infantry  action  impossible.  Unceasingly  through  the 
night,  the  flare  of  bursting  shells  brought  those  lurid, 
jagged  spots  of  light,  while  the  air  was  rent  by  the  roar  of 
guns  and  the  crash  of  explosions  and  the  shrieks  of  the 
injured.  .-. 

Before  dawn,  all  valid  officers  and  men,  and  some  with  a 
wound  hastily  bound  up,  were  afoot,  prepared  to  fight  with 
gun  and  bayonet,  supported  by  such  artillery  as  they 
had,  against  an  invader  superior  in  every  respect  save  that 
of  courage  and  persistency.  The  winding  course  of  the 
Mareille  was  furiously  disputed  on  both  banks.  But  as 
the  French  thought  they  were  gaining  ground  in  the  early 
morning — gaining  ground,  though  they  were  stiff  and  ex- 
hausted by  nigh  upon  three  weeks  of  fighting  without 


167 

adequate  food,  or  ever  a  shelter,  having  been  hourly  under 
fire  in  the  imminence  of  death  and  of  complete  rout — a 
rumour  passed  bringing  a  dismay  immediately  displaced 
by  heroic  resolve.  Another  German  army  had  come  up 
during  the  night,  from  beyond  the  far  hills;  the  French  were 
caught  between  this  and  the  army  already  in  the  plain. 

Then  began  a  battle  of  desperate  fortunes — for  the 
Germans,  swift  advance  to  Paris  and  an  early  end  to  the 
war;  for  the  French,  the  salvation  of  their  soil. 

The  French  artillery  weakened.  To  start  with,  many 
of  their  guns  had  had  but  twenty  shells  apiece;  now,  some 
were  silenced,  and  others  used  caps  and  explosives  alone,  to 
encourage  their  infantry  and  disturb  the  enemy.  Luckily, 
the  Germans  were  led  to  scatter  their  fire.  No  ruse  of  the 
French  produced  this  diversion,  but  the  Germans'  own 
acute  sense  for  ruses.  A  row  of  mechanical  pump-handles, 
connected  with  wells,  on  one  of  the  far  hills  which  the 
French  protected,  was  mistaken  for  a  battery  of  seventy- 
fives  naively  exposed;  and  the  pump-handles  were  pounded 
with  untiring  perseverance.  If  this  foolish  blunder  did  not 
save  the  French,  it  at  least  gained  time  for  them. 

The  fighting,  begun  with  rifles,  soon  degenerated  into  the 
most  savage  hand-to-hand  conflicts.  French  soldiers, 
short  of  cartridges,  lost  patience  with  bayonets  or  else 
bent  or  broke  them  in  their  fury;  taking  rifles  by  the  bar- 
rels, they  used  the  butts  as  clubs,  braining  their  adversar- 
ies. Men  who  stood  unwounded  were  red  with  the  blood 
of  others;  drunk  with  the  smell  of  powder,  and  the  sight 
of  the  carnage,  and  the  contagion  surrounding  them. 

"Who  told  you  of  this?"  I  asked  Paul. 
"The  fighting?     I   saw  it,"   he   said.     "My  window 
looked  that  way.     And  father  had  an  old  pair  of  opera- 


168         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

glasses.  I  watched  at  sunrise,  and  again  after  coming 
home.  It  had  seemed  as  if  I  wouldn't  ever  get  back; 
and  once  there,  I  thought  best  to  stay  at  the  window. 
At  least  I  could  see  something  of  what  was  going  on. 
No  use  hiding  downstairs  or  anywhere  else.  The  Ger- 
mans weren't  sending  us  shrapnel,  but  only  occasional  big 
shells  which  passed  through  two  or  three  storeys  as  well  as 
one,  so  why  bother?  Some  of  the  people  who  ran  down  in 
cellars  were  buried  with  the  whole  house  on  top.  I  don't 
suppose  it  made  much  difference  for  them  in  the  end, 
when  the  burning  and  the  killing  came.  But  at  the  time 
I  preferred  the  idea  of  dying  where  there  was  light  and  air. 

"Early  in  the  morning,  I  had  gone  to  ask  if  I  could  help 
Mademoiselle  Odette.  But  no  more  wounded  were  being 
brought  in;  there  wasn't  time,  or  the  chance,  either;  and 
people  like  me,  who  hadn't  any  qualification  save  for  carry- 
ing stretchers,  were  about  in  any  quantity.  The  day 
before  I'd  been  useful,  when  all  the  men  from  the  Ripote 
were  brought  in.  All?  No.  I  don't  mean  that.  Thou- 
sands died  there  in  those  pathetic  little  trenches,  mere 
deepenings  of  the  ditches  you  and  I  saw  together — deep- 
ened under  the  enemy's  fire,  the  men  who  worked  being 
killed  so  their  comrades  might  be  protected  just  a  little. 
Our  ambulance  was  filled  till  there  wasn't  a  square  yard 
of  floor  left  without  a  human  form  on  it.  But  I  couldn't 
be  of  use  now." 

That  casual  remark  was  all  I  learned  of  his  work  there. 

"M.  Badajeze  told  me  he  was  going  into  the  centre  of 
town,  and  I  must  come  too.  He  wanted  to  see  if  the 
church-steeple  had  been  hit.  That  question  puzzled  him. 

"'People  pretend  the  German  marksmanship  is  bad,' 
he  said.  'Yet  they  could  hit  the  Red  Cross  flag  wherever 
it  was,  on  the  ambulance  or  over  the  plough-shares.' 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         169 

"'Murdering  the  wounded,'  I  said  angrily. 

"  'That's  not  what  they're  after,'  he  answered.  'They 
use  the  Red  Cross  to  shelter  their  artillery  and  ammuni- 
tion and  supplies;  so  of  course  they  suspect  us  of  doing  the 
same.  Haven't  you  ever  noticed  that  the  systematic  liar 
suspects  the  word  of  everybody  else,  and  that  the  man  who 
enjoys  "fooling"  others  is  always  on  his  guard  against 
people  ten  times  more  honest  than  he?  So  the  Germans, 
being  of  bad  faith  in  their  conventions  and  treaties  and 
general  honour,  and  thinking  anything  may  be  justified 
from  the  fact  that  they  do  it,  conclude  we  can't  be  any 
better.  They  aren't  destroying  churches  for  the  fun  of  it, 
but  because  their  own  theory  is  to  use  steeples  for  ob- 
servatories and  machine-guns.' 

"As  soon  as  we  caught  sight  of  the  church,  M.  Badajeze 
took  out  his  watch. 

"'The  clock  must  have  been  hit,'  he  said.  'An  hour 
slow.' 

"  I  looked  up,  and  exclaimed  that  we  couldn't  have  taken 
two  hours  to  come  from  his  house. 

'"But  the  hands  have  changed  since  a  minute  ago!'  he 
said. 

"I  couldn't  believe  him.  He  scarcely  believed  himself, 
I  think.  Both  of  us  looked  for  some  time.  And  we  both 
saw  the  hands  spin  round. 

"  'The  devil  himself  has  got  into  the  works,'  he  said;  and 
explained  that  a  shell  couldn't  have  such  an  effect. 

"The  hands  twirled  again,  and  he  declared  he  was 
going  up.  Of  course  I  went  too. 

"The  tower-door  was  locked.  But  if  an  artistic  lock- 
smith and  his  first  junior  workman  couldn't  pick  an  out- 
of-date  thing  like  that " 

Pride  in  his  trade  had  almost  made  him  forget,  for  a 


170         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

moment,  the  tragedy  which  still  hung  over  him.  He  so- 
bered quickly : 

"We  got  in,  without  noise.  Half-way  up  the  winding 
stairs,  we  were  stopped  by  a  screech-owl's  nest  with  several 
young  ones  in  it;  no  way  to  pass  without  stepping  into  the 
thing. 

"'Much  too  clever,'  M.  Badajeze  remarked.  He  had 
lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper.  'Whoever  found  that  in 
the  loft,  and  put  it  here  as  a  blind,  forgot  watchers  came 
yesterday.  Take  off  your  shoes.'" 

Paul  stopped. 

"Who  was  it?"  I  prompted. 

"Pere  Elard.  A  German  spy.  Been  so  for  very  long. 
He  had  an  apparatus  all  ready,  prepared  in  advance,  for 
disconnecting  the  hands  from  the  clock  and  turning  them 
as  he  pleased,  according  to  a  code  for  signalling  our  posi- 
tions." 

"This  accounts  for  his  peculiar  views  which  you  used  to 
quote!"  I  exclaimed. 

Paul  nodded: 

"No  wonder  he  lived  on  an  'income'  from  mysterious 
relatives  nobody  ever  saw!  No  wonder  he  was  always 
running  down  England,  and  complaining  she  had  no 
army,  and  saying  he  wouldn't  trust  her  to  help  us  any- 
how! When  we  caught  him,  he  tried  to  buy  his  pardon 
from  us  by  turning  traitor  against  the  Germans.  His 
abject  infamy  was  awful.  But  that  wasn't  the  worst. 
He  couldn't  do  his  dirty  work  alone,  so  do  you  know 
whom  he  had  bribed,  or  deceived,  or  browbeaten  into 
helping  him?  Manadan,  poor,  weak,  diseased  little  Andre 
Manadan!  Pitiful  little  beggar,  I  can't  believe  he  was 
a  traitor,  or  meant  to  be.  He  didn't  know — I  would 
swear  he  didn't  know.  We  delivered  them  both  over  to 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         171 

the  Mayor,  who  locked  them  up  in  a  cellar  while  looking 
for  an  officer. 

"Everybody  agreed  our  army  must  be  warned.  There 
weren't  any  soldiers  available  in  town;  so  I  volunteered 
to  go  to  the  nearest  post,  in  a  little  wood.  An  open  part 
of  the  plain  had  to  be  crossed  to  reach  it." 

"Well?" 

"I  went." 

"And  then?" 

"I  got  there."  A  silence.  "It  felt  funny,  when 
bullets  whistled  and  I  knew  they  were  aimed  at  me.  I 
think  I  was  rather  frightened.  First  experience,  you 
know.  Shells  felt  different;  they  were  meant  for  anybody. 
But  it  was  uncomfortable  to  think  those  bullets  came 
specially  after  me. 

"The  colonel  said  I  had  been  foolish  to  come.  There 
was  a  military  post  in  town  which  could  have  telephoned, 
giving  the  message  better  and  more  quickly.  Only  we 
didn't  know.  I'd  risked  drawing  fire  on  them  by  crossing 
that  part  of  the  plain.  It  may  have  been  that,  or  else 
Pere  Elard's  last  message;  but  shells  certainly  did  begin 
to  fall  thick  in  that  wood.  I  was  told  to  stay. 

"Like  me,  a  woman  was  kept  sort  of  prisoner  there — a 
woman  I  had  seen  before,  in  the  street.  She  had  a  huge 
form,  and  a  small  round  head,  with  fat  rosy  cheeks  and 
black  hair  drawn  very  tight  to  a  knot  on  her  fat  neck; 
always  used  to  talk  patriotically,  and  say  the  war  had 
better  come  and  be  done  with  it.  But  she  was  terrified 
now.  Every  time  a  shell  burst,  she  would  scream  and  run 
away;  and  since  they  were  bursting  in  every  direction, 
you  can  imagine  the  sort  of  criss-cross  game  she  played. 
At  last  the  colonel  got  sorry  for  her;  besides,  this  business 
was  rattling  the  nerves  of  the  men. 


172         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Don't  you  see,'  he  said,  'that  what  you  are  doing  there 
is  very  foolish — that  you  are  multiplying  your  own  risks?' 
He  went  on  to  explain  that  there  was  a  very  small  chance 
for  a  shell  to  fall  in  any  one  spot  she  might  choose,  but  by 
changing  places  every  minute  she  was  exposing  herself  to 
the  greatest  possible  number  of  chances.  It  was  done  so 
kindly,  and  in  such  simple  language,  that  she  understood, 
and  thanked  him,  and  promised  not  to  move  again.  Nor 
did  she — ever. 

"'The  colonel  walked  away.  I  followed  him.  We  heard 
and  felt  an  explosion.  We  both  looked  round.  The  very 
next  shell  had  fallen  right  on  her  and  literally  blown  her 
to  atoms — vaporised  her,  there  where  she  had  been  told 
to  stand  for  safety!  The  colonel  turned  green. 

"After  that,  the  fire  grew  so  hot  that  the  post  was 
moved,  and  I  got  permission  to  go  back.  Then  I  went  to 
my  window  and  watched." 

The  battle  lasted  throughout  the  day,  the  Germans 
gaining  ground  along  the  high-road,  but  not  from  the  far 
hills,  where  they  had  thought  to  surprise  the  French. 
Again  that  night,  officers  and  men  slept  on  their  positions. 
An  urgent  call  had  been  sent  for  ammunition,  which 
might  still  come  in  time.  But  next  morning,  when  the 
artillery's  voice  failed  to  speak,  it  became  evident  that 
the  field  could  not  be  held.  In  this  extremity,  the  com- 
manding general  resolved  on  a  seeming  retreat  which 
should  be  a  concentration  at  the  Ripote,  already  twice 
lost  and  regained.  If  surrounded  there,  he  would  see  his 
army  cut  to  pieces;  but  that  was  where  he  had  the  best 
hope  for  ammunition  and  reinforcements. 

The  town  filled  with  gaunt,  grimy,  blood-stained  men, 
supported  above  exhaustion  by  the  lust  of  battle,  many 
of  them  wounded  but  fighting  on  until  shot  or  struck 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          173 

again.  As  the  last  valid  men  crossed  the  bridge,  engineers 
blew  it  up,  when  the  Germans  were  within  a  few  yards — 
such  quick  work  that  three  of  the  French  were  lost  in  the 
ruins  they  created. 

While  the  Germans  crossed  the  river,  their  artillery 
was  trained  on  Verviller.  Some  of  the  finest  buildings 
were  wrecked,  and  now  that  the  church  tower  had  stopped 
giving  signals,  it  was  hit  repeatedly,  as  were  the  chateau 
and  the  town  hall.  From  all  the  windows  along  the  river- 
front, French  soldiers  poured  a  deadly  rifle-fire  on  pontoon- 
bridges  the  Germans  were  throwing  out;  and  soldiers 
who  tried  swimming  across  were  hashed  to  pieces  by 
bullets  when  they  reached  the  bank.  But  with  the 
might  of  inexhaustible  numbers  and  with  a  courage  which 
knew  no  shade  of  hesitation,  they  continued  to  come, 
until  they  closed  in  with  the  last  of  the  French  who  dared 
cover,  from  the  town,  the  end  of  the  retreat.  The  streets 
rang  with  reports  and  echoes  of  rifle-shots,  and  dull  blows 
of  bayonets. 

Night  was  falling.  The  Germans  took  nominal  pos- 
session; next  morning,  they  entered  officially. 

When  the  bridge  had  been  blown  up,  the  house  rocked 
and  the  glass  of  Paul's  window  showered  about  his  head. 
He  ran  downstairs: 

"No  more  of  our  soldiers  were  to  be  seen,  and  I  couldn't 
bear  to  watch  only  Germans.  Mother  vowed  she  wasn't 
afraid;  said  she  knew  how  to  take  care  of  herself.  I  didn't 
fear  for  her,  much;  she  wasn't  at  all  attractive,  any  more," 
he  explained  gravely.  "Besides,  she  had  grandmother 
and  grandfather  as  a  protection — very  old  people,  whom 
nobody  could  hurt,  I  believed. 

"Before  the  street-fighting  began,  there  was  one  thing 
I  thought  of.  That  is,  I  had  thought  of  it  often,  but  I 


174         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

knew  this  was  the  time.  I  went  to  your  house.  Leonie 
was  in  an  extraordinary  state  of  excitement.  Positively 
cursing  our  soldiers  for  allowing  themselves  to  be  driven 
away  by  Germans!  Almost  slapped  me  when  I  said  I 
wanted  to  save  something.  Said  she  undertook  to  defend 
the  house  alone  against  a  thousand  Germans.  But  I 
went  in. 

"What  I  had  come  for  was  your  manuscript.  Then  it 
occurred  to  me  that  if  I  were  well  dressed  they  might  treat 
me  better,  so  I  put  on  my  brown  suit  and  best  shoes  in  my 
own  room,  upstairs.  The  clothes  were  a  good  idea.  But 
later,  on  the  road,  when  my  feet  got  torn  all  to  pieces,  I 
almost  cried  for  my  good  old  hob-nailed  boots. 

"Your  manuscript  wasn't  easy  to  find;  everything 
turned  upside  down,  stuffed  into  drawers  and  cupboards 
on  top  of  whatever  you  had  put  away  yourself;  but  I  got 
it  at  last.  Just  at  that  moment  I  heard  the  fighting  get 
very  close;  I  thrust  the  papers  up  under  my  waistcoat, 
and  ran  home.  The  rest  of  your  things,  I  reflected,  were 
safer  in  your  house,  as  a  neutral,  than  they  would  be  with 
me.  But  I  didn't  intend  that  manuscript  to  be  lost  unless 
I  was,  too." 

He  lay  very  still  for  a  while,  and  said : 

"It  would  have  gone  anyway,  when  your  house  was 
burned." 

"  Do  you  think  I  consider  such  details,  when  I  have  you  ?  " 

"It  would  have  gone  anyway,"  he  went  on  as  if  I  had 
not  spoken,  "and  I  should  have  been  killed." 

The  Germans,  fearing  a  trap,  perhaps,  kept  very  quiet, 
that  night;  and  the  townspeople,  of  course,  were  voiceless. 
In  fact,  Paul  believed  the  enemy  had  only  posted  guards. 

Their  conduct  upon  taking  possession  was  orderly; 
severe,  but  orderly.  A  proclamation  warned  the  citizens 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         175 

to  be  calm  if  they  would  avoid  reprisals.  Forty  hostages 
were  held,  among  them  Frere  Alexandre,  dragged  from  the 
bedsides  of  the  wounded;  M.  Badajeze  and  M.  Lavenu; 
and  Paul's  grandfather,  this  last  perhaps  because  of  his 
venerable  appearance,  since  he  was  neither  rich  nor 
influential.  They  were  paraded  through  the  streets,  and 
insults  heaped  upon  them  by  invading  soldiers,  though 
hostages  are  supposed  to  be  sacred.  The  Mayor,  who 
had  received  the  enemy  with  firmness  and  dignity,  and 
who  had  been  officially  respected  for  a  few  hours,  was 
placed  at  the  head  of  this  sad  procession.  The  Cure, 
who  had  been  ministering  to  the  dying,  was  put  in  the 
ranks  too,  and  forced  to  walk  though  he  had  an  ulcerated 
leg  and  fell  several  times  from  pain  and  weakness;  each 
time,  he  would  be  picked  up  and  kicked,  and  forced  into 
line  once  more.  They  were  finally  all  thrown  into  the 
cellars  of  the  town  hall  and  given  only  buckets  of  water 
which,  their  guards  told  them,  represented  "food  and 
drink."  Meanwhile,  famished  soldiers  were  busy  devour- 
ing all  provisions  and  systematically  looting  wine.  Not  a 
house  but  was  entered  with  cries  of  "  Champagne !  .  Cham- 
pagne!" Where  it  was  produced  in  sufficient  quantities, 
they  respected  the  giver — temporarily. 

Save  for  the  noise  from  the  battle  raging  round  the 
Ripote  that  day  passed  quietly  enough  in  the  town. 
People  remained  within  doors;  there  was  no  cause  for 
complaint  beyond  the  treatment  given  to  the  hostages 
and  the  seizing  of  food  and  wine. 

His  grandfather  being  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  Paul 
felt  an  especial  weight  resting  upon  him;  the  slightest 
altercation  into  which  he  might  get  would  be  doubly  fatal. 
His  mother's  condition  alarmed  him.  Reserved  and 
gentle,  almost  affectionate  when  she  spoke,  beneath  the 


176         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

surface  one  felt,  in  the  depths  of  a  nature  which  had 
never  revealed  itself,  a  concentrated  fury  capable  of 
bursting  out  in  a  worthy  cause. 

She  soothed  her  mother's  moans  and  put  a  fresh  bandage 
on  the  old  woman's  inflamed  and  swollen  knee.  Seeing 
Paul  move  to  the  door,  she  called  out : 

"  I  forbid  you  to  go  in  the  street !  Big  as  you  are — they 
might — they  might " 

She  actually  broke  down  and  cried. 

Shortly  before  sunset,  the  enemy's  humour  changed. 
The  French  on  the  Ripote  were  unexpectedly  supported 
by  their  artillery,  whose  supplies  the  Germans  had  in- 
effectually tried  to  cut  off.  Fighting  on  the  hill-side  be- 
came furious,  and  the  French  arriving  from  the  plain 
gained  ground.  Alarming  reports  reached  the  staff  in 
Verviller;  there  was  talk  of  evacuation,  and  menace  of 
reprisals  if  this  should  be  forced,  while  soldiers  madly 
emptied  down  their  throats  the  bottles  they  had  captured. 
A  French  shell  struck  the  chdteau,  immediately  over 
the  room  which  the  general  used  as  his  office.  It  became 
evident,  from  this  moment,  that  the  town  was  doomed. 

The  pretext  was  found  readily  enough.  Poor  old  Mere 
Rollinet  took  it  into  her  cracked  head  that  these  soldiers 
had  killed  the  son  for  whose  return  she  had  waited  since 
the  winter  of  1870.  Rushing  with  wild  screams  through 
the  streets,  she  fell  with  weak,  withered  fists  upon  the 
broad  chest  of  a  huge  infantryman  who  immediately  ran 
his  bayonet  through  her — in  self-defence.  For  his  supe- 
riors, it  sufficed  that  blood  was  shed.  An  order  came  for 
the  hostages  to  be  executed  and  the  town  burned. 

What  Paul  had  to  tell  stopped  here,  as  a  narrative.  In 
a  few  short,  terrible  phrases,  he  depicted  the  rest.  But 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         177 

the  scene  so  summarily  painted  rises  before  me  as  if  I  had 
witnessed  it — as  indeed  I  am  witness  to  its  ruins  and  to 
some  of  the  lives  that  were  wrecked. 

I  seem  to  see  squads  of  men  in  mouse-grey  systemati- 
cally at  work  as  they  ransack  the  houses  before  torches  are 
lighted.  All  plunder  being  gathered  and  removed  to 
safety,  I  see  soldiers  run  from  door  to  door  with  incendiary 
fuses  and  powders  brought,  all  ready  from  Germany,  for 
such  tasks  as  this.  I  seem  to  see  the  flames  writhe  slowly, 
half  smothered  in  smoke,  and  subside  as  if  loath  to  be 
slaves  of  such  masters.  And  I  see  vast  sheets  of  flame 
spread  and  rise,  absorbing,  irresistible,  while  petroleum 
and  gasolene  are  showered  to  hasten  the  town's  fate. 

The  hostages,  drawn  up  in  the  square  before  the  town 
hall,  are  mowed  down  with  machine-guns.  I  see  Frere 
Alexandre  fall,  tall  and  pale,  with  a  final  deprecating 
gesture  of  the  white  hands;  I  see  M.  Badajeze,  grim, 
prophetic,  ironic  beneath  a  fury  menacing  apoplexy  up  to 
the  very  instant  of  death;  I  see  the  poor  old  grandfather 
with  his  pale  eyes  looking  puzzled  and  weary  to  the  last. 

As  far  as  formal  orders  went,  the  people  of  the  town  were 
to  be  spared;  but  murders  and  infamies  begin,  somehow, 
as  of  themselves.  Any  who  try  to  escape  towards  a 
suburb  are  picked  off  like  rabbits;  any  who  try  to  rescue 
a  mite  from  a  burning  home  are  thrust  into  the  brazier 
with  bayonets  used  as  pitchforks;  women  who  are  not 
killed  are  outraged,  and  some  endure  both.  A  boy,  caught 
by  the  hand  and  hacked  with  a  sword,  runs  on  for  a  few 
steps,  screaming  and  waving  a  trunk  which  bathes  him  in 
blood  before  he  drops  in  a  writhing  heap. 

Paul  has  been  hurrying  about  the  town,  seeking  some 
one;  by  a  miracle,  he  has  escaped  injury.  He  has  culti- 
vated inner  mastery  and  outer  detachment;  he  sees  all 


178         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

things  but  looks  at  nothing,  hears  everything  but  makes 
no  comment,  passes  everywhere  but  takes  no  thought 
for  his  physical  existence:  he  is  spirit  alone  by  the  power 
of  will.  And  the  abstraction  which  he  has  made  of  his  body 
deflects  the  thought  of  those  who  would  harm  him. 

He  reaches  the  square,  which  is  burning  too.  Flames 
thrust  out  their  long  tongues  from  the  church  tower  and 
from  the  chateau  windows;  the  crash  of  walls  and  the 
crackling  of  fires  mingle  with  the  report  of  cannon  from  the 
plain  near  the  hill,  and  the  dry  report  of  shots  bringing 
down  helpless  townspeople.  There,  the  boy  stumbles 
against  a  row  of  corpses,  the  feet  still  chained  together. 
As  he  recognises  one  among  the  victims,  two  women 
come  up,  a  young  and  an  old.  Piercing  shrieks  rinte  out 
over  the  body  of  an  aged  man;  an  instant  later,  soldiers 
rush  forward.  A  shot  is  fired,  which  grazes  the  boy's 
arm:  the  two  women  are  struck  again  and  again  with 
bayonets,  until  their  forms  lose  human  semblance.  The 
boy,  numbed  and  bewildered,  watches  with  eyes  which 
have  ceased  to  see  anything  beyond  blood  and  flames, 
with  a  mind  which  wonders  at  but  one  horror  surpassing 
all  the  rest — that  he  should  be  spared  to  experience  this. 

But  he  has  failed  to  note  that  a  manuscript,  thrust 
beneath  his  waistcoat,  has  fallen  out :  a  captain  has  seized 
upon  it. — English!  What!  Are  those  devils  intriguing 
here  too?  The  captain  orders  that  the  boy's  execution  be 
stayed  while  he  reads  these  papers. 

The  roaring  of  flames  fills  a  town  whose  other  voices 
are  dumb;  soldiers  have  retreated  to  safe  suburbs,  taking 
with  them  one  or  two  prisoners  held  by  order;  among  the 
injured,  those  who  could  walk  or  crawl  have  followed  and 
escaped  death  by  fire. 

The  captain  seeks  the  point  whither  he  has  sent  the  boy. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          179 

The  papers  are  a  mere  work  of  part-theory,  part-erudition, 
on  lines  not  at  all  Teutonic,  hence  contemptible,  written 
by  some  fool  with  a  French  name  who  uses  Americanised 
English.  The  boy  is  not  a  witness  worth  keeping.  But 
the  captain  is  sick  of  slaughter  and  outrage;  his  scorn  goes 
equally  to  the  chiefs  who  coldly  plan  and  to  the  men  who 
willingly  execute  such  acts.  One  life  more  would  not 
count;  yet  the  captain  hesitates. 

"For  God's  sake,  finish  me!"  the  boy  cries  out,  tugging 
at  his  bound  hands.  "You  have  murdered  all  my  family 
before  my  eyes — life  is  too  horrible !  Kill  me  and  be  done 
with  me,  if  you  are  human!" 

"No,  you  shall  live,"  says  the  captain,  suddenly  in- 
spired. "You  shall  live  to  go  to  Paris  and  tell  them  what 
the  Germans  are.  Be  sure  to  add  that  we  follow  close 
behind  you." 

"Carry  him,  bound,  beyond  our  lines,"  he  commands  the 
soldiers.  "Start  him  on  the  road  to  Paris  and  see  that  he 
does  not  turn  back,  but  say  the  order  is,  he  must  not  be 
killed." 

Having  spoken  in  his  own  tongue,  he  translates  his  words 
into  French,  addressing  the  boy,  and  continues : 

"You  are  to  go  to  Paris — To  tell  what  you  have  seen — 
How  we  burn  and  kill  and  mutilate — Let  Parisians  know 
what  to  expect  when  we  get  there. Go!" 

IV 

IN  PARIS,  we  had  been  receiving  only  official  news,  brief 
accounts  of  resistance  in  the  north  and  victory  in  the  east. 
To  offset  this,  there  were  vague,  disquieting  rumours, 
whose  origin  could  never  be  traced;  those  who  believed 
them  were  branded  as  pessimists,  those  who  passed  them 
on  were  upbraided  as  no  better  than  traitors.  The 


180         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

truth,  when  it  came,  fell  upon  us  with  appalling  sudden- 
ness. 

Having  gone  to  Paris  to  secure  a  passport  or  a  certificate 
of  nationality  from  my  Embassy,  and  being  like  most 
Americans  in  that  I  had  no  identification  papers  worth 
mentioning,  I  was  told  I  must  wait  until  "military  exi- 
gencies" should  allow  my  return  to  Verviller.  Telegrams 
I  handed  in  at  various  post-offices  were  refused  for  sundry 
reasons;  and  the  letters  I  wrote  to  Paul  remained  un- 
answered. This  uncertainty,  this  separation,  this  ab- 
sence of  information  about  the  boy,  made  me  unhappy, 
but  did  not  rouse  my  concern. 

I  had  put  up  at  a  small  hotel  just  back  of  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies,  where  I  dined  regularly  with  an  old  retired 
colonel,  now  doing  office  work  at  the  Ministry  of  War  and 
hoping  to  be  rewarded  with  the  command  of  a  regiment. 
We  made  life  as  pleasant  as  we  could,  given  the  circum- 
stances. 

One  evening,  as  we  sat  as  usual,  and  he  was  telling  me 
of  his  garden  in  the  east  of  France  and  what  he  would 
plant  there  "next  spring,"  several  English  people  who  had 
left  an  hour  before,  with  their  luggage,  returned  in  con- 
fusion. At  the  Gare  du  Nord,  an  interpreter  had  told 
them  all  trains  were  stopped  at  Creil,  because  of  the 
German  advance.  The  railroad  officials  would  neither 
confirm  nor  deny;  some  travellers  decided  to  go  on,  others 
preferred  to  await  developments  in  Paris. 

"That  interpreter  ought  to  be  led  out  and  shot  for 
creating  a  panic  with  false  reports ! "  thundered  the  colonel. 

To  this  day,  I  have  never  been  sure  whether  or  not  he 
spoke  in  all  innocence. 

But  the  very  next  night  I  saw  him  far  from  our  table, 
seated  with  three  ladies.  The  dining-room  was  filled 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         181 

with  grime-stained  strangers.  On  his  way  out,  he  spoke 
to  me: 

"My  wife  and  daughter,  with  a  friend.  Got  here  only 
a  few  minutes  ago.  Took  me  by  surprise.  As  the  Ger- 
mans were  about  to  enter  our  village,  a  captain  who 
knows  me  went  and  tore  them  from  the  house.  They 
would  never  have  fled — my  wife  and  my  daughter  are 
both  of  the  blood  of  soldiers!"  His  kindly  face  flushed 
purple ;  the  points  of  his  white  moustache,  long  and  droop- 
ing like  that  of  an  ancient  Gaul,  trembled  slightly  as  he 
thought  of  the  danger  they  had  escaped. 

The  situation  dawned  upon  me  only  then,  in  all  it  meant 
for  Paul,  for  France,  for  the  entire  world.  I  had  believed 
so  firmly  that  the  good  news  from  Alsace  meant  the  war 
was  being  won!  I  had  been  told  so  often  that  if  the 
French  army,  supported  by  a  small  English  land  force 
while  the  British  fleet  controlled  the  Channel,  could  but 
hold  in  Alsace  for  the  first  few  days,  victory  would  be 
assured  in  the  "short  and  terrible  war"  about  which 
experts  agreed! 

I  began  a  weary  and  fruitless  search  through  all  places 
in  Paris  and  the  environs  where  refugees  might  stop,  ill- 
starred  and  unoffending  victims  of  a  merciless  onslaught 
and  an  insatiable  hate.  My  mission  held  out  little  hope. 
But  what  else  could  I  do;  and  who  could  have  consented 
to  do  nothing? 

One  scene  I  recall  with  particular  vividness;  not  that  it 
was  more  cruel  than  others  of  its  kind,  but  because  it 
was  then  I  synthetised  a  thought  I  have  never  since  driven 
from  me. 

Late  in  the  night,  I  entered  the  waiting-room  of  I 
don't  know  what  small  suburban  station.  Old  men, 
women,  and  children  sat  or  lay  upon  the  floor  or  on  the 


182         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

scant  hand-luggage  representing  what  remained  to  them 
in  the  world.  Between  them,  there  was  not  one  inch  of 
space  to  spare.  All  were  dirty  and  travel-worn,  all  were 
depressed  into  the  immobility  of  sleep,  though  many  were 
beyond  sleep.  From  fragile  old  people  who  had  done 
with  all  life  save  its  suffering,  down  through  their  juniors 
who  a  few  days  before  had  been  hi  hale  and  prosperous 
middle-age,  down  to  wasted  and  dispirited  babies  stretched 
weak  and  half-sick  upon  young  mothers'  knees,  they  sat 
or  lay  or  drooped,  silent,  all  but  lifeless,  totally  indifferent 
to  present  discomfort  as  to  privations  and  sacrifices  in  the 
near  past,  to  trials  and  perplexities  which  were  the  sum  of 
what  the  future  had  to  offer  them.  It  was  an  appalling 
sight,  evoking  another  which  somehow  seemed  less  horri- 
ble— the  Hall  of  the  Dead  in  the  museum  at  Pompeii,  the 
clay  of  people  who  had  suffered  and  died,  whereas  these 
had  suffered  and  now  lived  on  only  to  suffer  more. 

As  always,  I  scanned  the  faces,  searching  for  Paul  or  a 
friend  of  Paul's;  and  I  stumbled,  like  a  blinded  man,  into 
the  outer  night,  gasping  for  clean  air,  for  clear  vision,  for  an 
unstained  thought  in  my  overwhelmed  soul. 

I  murmured  then  a  prayer  which  since  has  been  often 
on  my  lips  and  oftener  in  my  heart.  It  was  not  the  sort 
of  prayer  to  which  my  philosophy  had  accustomed  me. 
It  was  the  inspired  prayer  of  the  English  prophet  who  saw 
beyond  the  very  image  evoked  by  his  genius.  In  my 
craving  for  the  triumph  of  right,  for  the  damnation  of  evil, 
my  cry  was  Kipling's:  "Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us 
yet — Lest  we  forget ! " 

When  I  had  abandoned  my  useless  search,  when  I  had 
lost  all  save  remembrance  and  grief,  it  was  Paul  who  found 
me. 

His  story,  as  spread  hi  military  circles  by  the  officers 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         183 

who  had  befriended  him,  and  confirmed  by  others  to  whom 
they  had  spoken,  represented  him  as  sobbing  ceaselessly. 
I  understand  that,  thus  related,  it  drew  tears  from  many. 
Yet  the  truth  was  more  terrible.  He  left  a  state  of  half- 
stupor  long  enough  to  talk  fully  to  me,  just  once;  he 
appeared  almost  natural  then,  especially  while  dealing 
with  incidents  which  had  impressed  him  least.  But,  the 
excitement  of  speaking  once  past,  he  was  abandoned,  woe- 
stricken,  indifferent  to  thought  and  to  pain;  giving  scarcely 
a  sign  of  life  save  for  his  faint,  irregular  breathing  and  that 
awful,  fixed,  haunted  stare  which  time  has  since  driven 
from  his  eyes  but  which  all  eternity  cannot  efface  from  my 
heart.  Such  physical  relief  as  he  needed  had  been  given 
him;  but  before  his  moral  condition  I  was  helpless. 

Meanwhile,  the  untamed  and  hitherto  irresistible  horde 
from  the  north  was  sweeping  on.  Paris,  with  only  a 
rampart  of  superannuated  forts,  could  not  defend  herself, 
though  she  might  be  defended.  Resistance  was  fever- 
ishly organised,  regiments  were  grouped,  houses  evacuated, 
trenches  dug  and  earthworks  thrown  up.  The  govern- 
ment, to  avoid  being  cut  off  by  an  attack  drawing  hourly 
nearer,  had  left  with  its  archives;  and  funds  from  the 
banks,  and  treasures  from  the  museums,  had  been  rushed 
by  train  and  by  motor  south  and  south-east,  south-west 
and  west. 

Printed  placards  in  the  streets  advised  citizens  that 
railroad  transportation  would  be  at  their  disposal  for 
three  days,  but  that  Paris  would  hold  out.  Crowds  thou- 
sands strong  stood  in  line  for  hours,  to  get  numbers  which 
would  entitle  them  to  wait  hours  longer  in  other  lines,  and 
secure  third-class  tickets  for  cattle-cars — privileges  being 
abolished  at  this  climax  of  national  peril. 

A  fair  number  of  people  stayed,  either  believing  they 


184         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

would  not  be  disturbed  by  the  Prussians,  or  else  being 
prey  to  a  calm  despair  mightier  than  fear.  Some  recalled 
the  occupation  a  generation  before,  and  declared  it  had 
been  orderly.  But  others  whispered  of  information 
which  had  reached  the  Ministry  of  War,  the  fate  reserved 
for  Paris  as  traced  out  in  notes  found  on  the  bodies  of 
German  officers :  how  the  city  was  to  be  burned  systemati- 
cally, district  by  district,  after  all  articles  of  value  had 
been  stolen;  how  murders  and  mutilations  were  to  be 
visited,  for  purposes  of  terrorisation,  upon  harmless  and 
defenceless  citizens. 

Of  all  the  wild  rumours  engendered  at  the  period,  this, 
which  was  among  the  truest,  was  the  most  readily  rejected. 
Who  could  credit  such  infamies  of  officers  and  gentlemen, 
whether  Prussian  or  not?  War  was  hell,  of  course;  but 
men  of  culture  were  not  devils. 

This  is  not  a  history  of  the  war,  nor  a  technical  treatise 
of  any  sort;  it  is  the  plain  story  of  one  among  the  myriads 
whose  course  of  thought  and  of  life  was  changed  by  the 
world-cataclysm.  But  what  put  an  end  to  the  death 
carried  hi  the  heart  of  an  entire  race,  what  brought  promise 
of  a  renewed  and  reinspired  life,  was  the  winning  of  the 
Marne.  How,  therefore,  should  I  not  add  my  word  to  the 
maze  of  assertions  and  contradictions  which  have  striven 
to  befog  that  victory,  a  miracle  in  its  way,  perhaps,  but 
a  carefully  prepared  and  minutely  executed  miracle,  whose 
springs,  deftly  concealed,  worked  exactly  as  foreseen? 
Not  prepared,  the  victory  of  the  Marne?  It  is  true  that 
the  error  made  by  the  Germans  themselves  in  hesitating 
opened  a  swift  door  for  opportunity.  But  what  would 
that  have  availed,  without  Joffre's  preparation? 

During  those  most  tragic  days,  a  man  in  authority  ad- 
dressed to  me  words  which,  while  not  betraying  a  trust, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          185 

were  full  of  moment  then  and  have  been  illuminating  to 
me  since.  For  they  showed  how  far  into  the  future  the 
leaders  of  France  had  sounded.  Nor  am  I  writing  now 
only  in  what  is  ironically  termed  the  light  of  subsequent 
events.  I  have  before  me  a  memorandum  of  the  period, 
from  which  I  copy  as  follows:".  .  .  prophesied  to  me 
that  Prussian  military  prestige  would  reach  its  highest 
point  by  the  6th  of  September  and  that,  whatever  had 
been  accomplished  by  Prussia  up  to  then,  she  would  pay 
so  heavy  a  price  for  all  she  might  do  afterwards,  that  her 
star  would  steadily  wane." 

He  knew,  on  that  night  of  the  2nd  September,  what  I 
did  not,  could  not  know  and  did  not  learn  until  much 
later:  that  the  plans  for  the  Marne  were  made  long  in 
advance,  that  the  retreat  from  Charleroi  was  no  sooner 
begun  than  France's  immortal  commander-in-chief  sent 
out  his  first  order  of  the  day,  to  be  followed  by  others  hi 
logical  sequence,  building  up  step  by  step  the  mighty 
battle  he  had  designed,  counting  upon  the  matchless 
flexibility  of  the  French  army  to  turn  and  stand  and  fight 
and  win  when  the  moment  should  come. 

If  they  could  but  have  known,  those  soldiers  in  blue  and 
red,  and  those  in  khaki,  as  they  retreated  in  an  unflagging 
spirit  of  valour  and  resolution  and  self-sacrifice,  but  with 
despair  and  disaster  hovering  about  their  undaunted 
heads!  If  they  could  but  have  known,  as  they  saw  the 
ruin  advancing  in  their  wake!  The  French  suffered  for 
their  beloved  soil,  invaded  and  laid  waste;  but  the  English 
were  giving  their  blood  for  a  land  not  their  own  and  for  a 
cause  which  only  later  appeared  plainly  as  their  own. 
How  they  fought  and  died  for  honour,  for  principle,  for 
generosity,  those  soldiers  forming  the  sturdy  flower  of  the 
British  army!  May  a  modern  Homer  arise  some  day, 


186         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

worthy  to  relate  such  epics  as  the  stand  of  the  Coldstream 
Guards  at  Landrecies  and  the  death  of  such  boys  as 
Archer  Windsor-Clive :  how,  fighting  with  their  handful 
of  men  to  hold  the  town  against  heaviest  odds  until  their 
division  was  safe,  and  fulfilling  their  mission  to  the  end, 
they  live  more  than  those  who  survived. 

My  friend  also  asked  me  a  question  which  was,  in  a  way, 
a  prophecy.  Suppose,  he  said,  a  long  war  must  be  ex- 
pected; a  war  of  wear-and-tear  and  of  endurance,  in 
which  moral  qualities  would  count  for  more  than  the 
physical,  in  which  military  effectiveness  and  economic 
organisation  would  have  equal  weight:  would  America, 
if  not  an  active  participant,  rise  to  the  test  of  time  and  of 
occurrences  for  economic  and  financial  help,  for  brotherly 
aid?  I  swore  that  she  would,  and  more;  and  I  gave  for 
my  faith  reasons  which,  by  the  grace  of  God  and  to  the 
credit  of  man,  have  not  been  belied  by  the  part  my  country 
has  since  played. 

The  dull  glow  of  an  afternoon  sun  whose  rays  were  cut 
off  by  houses  across  the  street,  reached  us  as  I  sat  near  the 
bed  on  which  Paul  lay.  The  room,  with  the  sitting-room 
next  to  it,  was  in  one  of  those  exceptionally  low  entresols 
found  hi  some  of  the  older  Parisian  houses;  the  windows 
were  half-moons  which  formed  the  crown  of  the  ground- 
floor  windows,  and  their  top  barely  reached  my  watch- 
chain  when  I  stood  up.  At  best,  such  light  is  trying; 
with  that  peculiar,  deadened,  reflected  glow  added  by  the 
houses  opposite,  the  effect  was  gruesome. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  prison  once  more,"  Paul  said  softly. 
It  was  by  accident  that  I  caught  the  words;  they  did  not 
rise  above  a  murmur. 

"We  shall  get  other  quarters,"  I  rejoined. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         187 

"I  don't  mind,"  he  said.  "Indeed,  I  rather  like  it. 
Those  days  were  calm  and  restful." 

While  he  had  not  moved,  and  lay  as  limp  as  ever  with 
his  bandaged  feet  and  injured  arm,  he  seemed  more  him- 
self than  at  any  moment  since  rejoining  me. 

Leaving  the  bed  he  walked  to  and  fro,  weakly,  for 
several  minutes.  By  an  evident  effort  of  will,  his  move- 
ments gained  firmness.  He  saw  with  surprise  some  new 
clothes  and  soft  shoes  I  had  bought  and  asked  him  to  try 
on  the  day  before;  he  had  been  unaware  of  them.  He 
put  them  on  now,  expressing  pleasure;  and  presently 
went  into  the  sitting-room  where  he  dropped  into  an  arm- 
chair, with  his  elbow  on  the  table.  I  followed  him.  As 
that  dull,  ghastly  light  shone  on  us  from  beneath,  he 
looked  aged,  weary  with  the  weight  of  time  and  knowl- 
edge; his  eyes  had  no  spark  left,  his  voice  was  colourless  as 
he  said: 

"Yes.  I  like  to  remember  those  prison-days.  Beauti- 
ful silence — and  thoughts  which  weren't  hideous." 

At  odd  moments,  we  had  heard  people  pass  in  the 
street.  Their  footfalls  altered,  took  on  new  accents, 
stopped  and  then  pressed  on  in  one  same,  though  con- 
fused, direction.  A  low  murmur  rose,  becoming  quickly 
sharper.  Shots  rang  out,  dry,  rapid,  furious,  from  many 
directions  at  once. 

"Here — already?"  Paul  exlaimed.  He  had  brightened; 
complete  energy  had  come;  he  sprang  up  and  snatched  his 
hat  from  the  back  of  the  door.  "  Let's  go  out.  Better  be 
among  the  first;  one  doesn't  see  so  much." 

"It's  only  a  Taube,"  I  said.  "They  come  almost 
daily,  at  this  hour." 

"Oh !    Then  I  should  like  to  look  at  it." 

"You  are  safer  in  the  house,"  I  ventured. 


188         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

He  smiled: 

"Tauben  are  beautiful  to  look  at  when  the  sun  shines 
on  them!" 

To  please  him,  I  went  down;  and  perhaps  to  please  my- 
self too.  For  though  I  had  counselled  prudence,  I  must 
confess  that  I  had  been  going,  like  any  other  fool,  to  see 
this  sight  on  previous  days. 

While  vain  puffs  of  smoke  left  the  roofs  of  administra- 
tive buildings  and  futile  shots  were  fired  from  rifles  in  the 
streets,  the  hostile  aeroplane  soared  over  our  heads,  glow- 
ing with  rainbow  colours,  like  a  gorgeous  bird  against 
the  clear  sky;  but  the  beak  was  sinister,  for  those  who 
looked  closely. 

The  crowd  about  us  watched  with  angry  protests,  but 
without  sign  of  fear.  It  had  become  known,  by  now, 
that  such  visits  did  no  extensive  damage;  and  I  suspect 
that  the  populace  even  underestimated  the  possible 
harm.  I  shall  not  be  credited  with  accuracy  in  stating  one 
fact,  I  know;  yet  I  actually  saw  ladies,  on  several  different 
days  before  the  exodus  began,  raise  their  sunshades  as 
Tauben  passed,  and  cry  out  to  their  children  to  come  under 
the  protecting  silk. 

Grim  and  vulture-like  in  the  greyness  of  twilight,  the 
aeroplane  drifted  away. 

That  night  we  wandered  through  streets  quite  dark, 
save  for  rare  veiled  lights  at  windows,  or  flashes  as  military 
motors  passed  at  reckless  speed.  In  the  resolute  black- 
ness, spots,  denser  than  their  surroundings,  would  mark 
men  and  women.  The  Chamber  of  Deputies,  where  the 
last  word  of  party  strife  seemed  to  have  been  spoken,  rose 
a  solid,  desolate  mass  against  the  sky.  But  as  we  crossed 
the  bridge,  the  moon  part-cleared  herself  of  silvery  mists 
and  brought  out  veiled  reliefs  of  river,  of  quays  and  para- 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         189 

pets,  of  tree-fringed  banks  where  pale  granite  lurked  in 
patches  hemmed  by  shade;  before  us  spread  the  great 
Place  de  la  Concorde,  smooth  and  lifeless  as  a  stagnant  sea; 
above  us  stretched  serene,  unbounded  skies,  specked 
with  white  clouds  on  which  search-lights  rested  and 
shimmered  and  glided  afield.  But  we  alone  looked  on 
this,  Paul  and  I;  we  seemed  the  only  souls  in  a  city 
immemorially  dead;  we  had  come  back  from  another  age 
to  behold  what  had  once  been,  and  to  feel  that,  from  our 
kind,  none  lived  on  as  witnesses. 

Surrounded  by  these  symbols  of  death  or  passiveness, 
I  made  my  appeal  to  Paul.  Although  the  Germans  had 
started  a  turning  movement,  the  city's  position  was  as 
perilous  as  ever,  menaced  either  by  envelopment  or  by  a 
junction  of  the  forces  from  the  east  with  those  from  the 
north.  The  civilian  rush  was  over,  the  last  train  officially 
put  at  the  disposal  of  the  people  had  gone;  but  one  of 
my  friends  had  helped  me  to  secure  a  special  permission 
to  leave  with  Paul  by  a  military  train  for  Bordeaux,  and  I 
wished  to  go  next  morning. 

Paul  heard  me  out,  and  spoke : 

"I  want  to  stay.  That  escape  from  Verviller  crushes 
me.  I  should  have  died  with  the  rest.  You  are  safe  as  a 
neutral,  aren't  you?  Then  mayn't  we  stay?  I  couldn't 
bear  to  live  after  running  a  second  time." 

Had  they  not  bound  him — I  argued — and  was  not  his 
arm  still  sore,  as  well  as  his  feet?  Had  not  strict  orders 
been  given  that  harm  should  not  come  to  him?  Was  it 
possible  that  he  had  thought  of  the  most  contemptible 
form  of  cowardice,  that  rush  to  voluntary  death  proper 
to  weak  evaders  of  responsibilities  who  court  lesser  resist- 
ance? 

Of  my  objections,  he  met  only  one:  he  was  already  much 


190         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

better,  and  what  did  a  scratched  arm  amount  to,  or  a 
couple  of  bruised  heels? 

The  search-light  whose  shaft  spanned  the  heavens  over 
our  heads  melted  away  into  the  moon-mistiness;  those  to 
all  sides,  farther  off,  melted  away  too,  into  the  dim  sheen. 
Their  swift  shafts  would  revive  and  shoot  out,  ending 
suddenly  upon  a  cloud  in  clear,  radiant,  lens-like  shape, 
for  just  an  instant;  and  then  would  again  die.  But  in  all 
the  still,  deserted  city,  none  save  Paul  and  I  seemed  to 
heed. 

His  room  was  empty,  next  morning,  when  I  got  up  at 
my  usual  hour.  Downstairs,  the  trim,  pleasant,  fair- 
haired  manageress  told  me  that  Paul  had  breakfasted  be- 
fore seven,  and  gone  out. 

From  the  first,  when  he  had  staggered  in  ill  and  dazed 
and  half  starved,  able  to  say  not  much  more  than  my 
name,  she  had  taken  a  maternal  interest  in  him;  now  his 
story  was  known,  she  felt  professional  pride  that  the  hero 
of  such  adventures  should  lodge  at  the  Hdtel  de  File  de 
France.  Though  her  husband,  the  cook,  and  all  the 
regular  waiters  and  men-servants  were  mobilised,  she  had, 
with  the  help  of  her  sister,  re-formed  a  staff  and  assured  so 
good  a  service  that  we  were  scarcely  aware  of  the  city's 
plight.  Our  worst  privation  had  been  want  of  milk  for 
our  early  coffee,  on  just  two  days. 

"You  intend  to  stay,  M.  Aubret?"  she  asked. 

"I  shall  make  up  my  mind  to-night,"  I  answered. 
"Will  you  keep  open?" 

"We  expect  to."  Cool  and  self-possessed,  she  entered 
a  small  item  in  the  book;  her  sister  knitted  quietly  near  by. 
"One  never  knows  among  such  events.  Our  project  is  to 
remain  open  while  we  have  guests." 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         191 

One  of  these  last  entered,  wishing  change  for  a  hundred- 
franc  note.  She  gave  him  smaller  notes,  emptied  the  till 
of  its  silver,  and,  not  finding  enough,  took  a  ten-franc  gold 
piece  unhesitatingly  from  her  own  purse.  Done  so  simply, 
and  at  such  a  time,  it  was  magnificent. 

I  wandered  out.  The  street  was  empty  save  for  a 
newsboy  huskily  whispering  the  name  of  his  sheet,  since 
a  police  order  forbade  crying. 

"This  must  be  bad  for  business,"  I  remarked. 

"Ruinous,"  he  said  flegmatically,  with  a  nod  to  thank 
me  for  the  quadruple  price  I  paid  him. 

Near  the  corner,  in  an  odd  angle  formed  by  two  house- 
fronts,  I  found  the  ancient  newspaper  woman  of  the 
quarter.  Her  wares  to-day  consisted  of  but  three  or  four 
papers,  all  the  others  now  appearing  in  Lyon  or  Toulouse 
or  Bordeaux.  Yet  she  showed  unmistakable  satisfaction 
as  she  buttered  a  crust  with  the  aid  of  a  knife-blade  worn 
down  to  a  bodkin. 

"You  are  not  leaving?"  I  asked. 

"No,  my  commerce  would  suffer." 

"You  are  not  afraid?" 

"What  would  be  the  use?"  Philosophically  she  cut  off 
a  tiny  slice  from  her  crust,  and  slipped  it  between  her 
yellowed,  shaking  teeth.  For  a  moment  or  two  she 
chewed  with  an  agitation  of  deep  wrinkles.  Her  shrunken 
eyes  observed  my  hand:  "You  don't  want  a  paper,  to- 
day?" 

Rebuked,  I  took  a  specimen  of  each. 

Intense  heat  had  already  descended;  unendurable  as  it 
had  rendered  recent  days,  it  had  waxed  more  appalling 
than  ever.  A  faint  haze  hung,  as  over  an  African  plain, 
on  the  wide,  untenanted  streets.  At  times,  a  passer; 
often  in  mourning,  always  preoccupied;  occasionally 


192         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

hurrying,  cowering,  muttering — as  if  mad.  Characters 
drawn  by  Gavarni  or  described  by  Balzac  had  poured  from 
attics  and  cellars  undusted  and  unvisited,  probably, 
since  that  period,  and  were  loose  in  a  world  quite  strange 
to  them.  But  even  among  these,  one  might  note  as  with 
their  sane  brothers  and  sisters,  who  came  and  vanished 
like  them,  an  all-pervading  gentleness.  So  they  would 
pass;  and  much  time  would  slip  on  towards  the  mysterious 
ends  of  fate  before  others  followed;  and  again  there  would 
be  the  desert  stillness  of  broad  avenues  and  streets  whose 
nakedness  lent  them  vast  length.  I  have  seen  Paris  in 
hours  of  idle  merriment  and  in  festive  garb  when  a  King 
or  an  Emperor  was  her  guest;  I  have  seen  her  at  toil  and  at 
leisure,  thronged  with  visitors  or  agitated  by  labour  unrest; 
but  never  under  joy  or  triumph,  under  utility  or  relaxa- 
tion, under  peace  or  anger,  have  I  seen  her  stones  so 
proud,  so  noble,  so  justly  dignified,  so  supremely  beautiful, 
as  in  her  hour  of  impending  immolation. 

Paul  met  me  at  lunch;  he  was  uncommunicative.  When 
we  went  to  our  rooms,  he  said : 

"I  tried  to  enlist.  The  officers  told  me  I  must  wait. 
One  was  very  kind  and  talked  to  me  quite  a  lot;  wanted  to 
know  what  was  wrong  with  my  arm  and  my  feet.  He 
said  the  best  thing  I  could  do  was  to  keep  out  of  the  way 
of  the  Germans  until  I  was  ready  to  fight  them." 

"And  so " 

"And  so  I  was  wrong,"  Paul  concluded. 


OUR  train,  bearing  us  away  from  the  city  of  vast  calm 
and  loneliness  unutterable,  was  reserved  for  wounded 
soldiers  and  for  conscripts.  The  wounded  were  not  yet 
in  evidence;  conscripts,  like  healthy  children,  were  heard 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         193 

even  more  than  seen.  One  youth,  particularly,  kept  his 
neighbours  merry  with  gay  words  and  snatches  of  song 
when  we  lost  time  by  the  way,  stopping  half  an  hour  here 
or  an  hour  there,  and  hundreds  poured  out  beside  the  track 
to  "see  why  we  weren't  going."  To  those  who  com- 
plained, he  observed  that  he  was  happier  on  a  sandbank 
than  he  would  be  in  a  swamp.  To  another  who  asked  if 
he  liked  the  prospect  of  being  shot,  the  boy  answered  that 
he  would  probably  be  dead  in  a  hundred  years,  so  why 
worry?  He  started  a  jig  to  display  the  advantages  of 
hob-nailed  boots;  but  for  these,  he  was  still  in  civilian 
dress;  and,  having  torn  his  trousers  while  chasing  a  bee 
into  a  bush,  he  remarked  that  the  paternal  government 
had  breeches  waiting  for  him  at  his  depot  that  very  night 
— so,  once  more,  why  worry? 

It  seemed  doubtful,  however,  if  any  of  us  should  get 
anywhere  before  the  next  day.  Although  our  speed  was 
the  military  rate  of  sixteen  miles  an  hour,  our  stops  were 
so  frequent  that  at  the  end  of  seven  hours  we  had  covered 
only  fifty  miles;  and  those  of  us  who  had  three  or  four 
hundred  miles  to  go  saw  that  our  provisions  would  not 
hold  out.  At  the  stations,  nothing  was  obtainable  save 
water,  and  that  only  if  one  had  luck.  For  the  wounded  or 
soldiers  in  uniform,  ladies  served  bread,  fruit,  chocolate, 
and  hot  coffee  from  Red  Cross  kitchens. 

Often,  troop-trains  passed  us  while  we  waited  in  mid- 
country.  When  they  proved  to  be  English,  there  would 
be  wild  cheering.  French  troop-trains  were  greeted  with 
cheers  too,  but  more  soberly;  only  when  they  displayed 
at  the  windows  tree-branches  hung  out,  according  to 
custom,  by  recruits,  would  ours  grow  noisy;  the  leaves 
that  passed  us  were  already  withering,  like  our  own. 
Sometimes  gay  shouts  died  suddenly  in  the  throats  that 


194         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

uttered  them,  when  the  roadside  unexpectedly  revealed  a 
dreary  procession  of  refugees  with  haggard  faces  and 
spare,  pathetic  bundles.  Paul  would  gaze  upon  these 
until  they  disappeared,  and  then  would  turn  away,  not 
speaking  and  not  hearing  if  spoken  to. 

Twelve  hours  of  travelling  brought  us  to  Orleans.  Paul's 
pinched  features  and  colourless  lips  showed  me  that 
fatigue,  or  the  heat  and  the  crowding,  caused  him  pain; 
though  his  arm  was  almost  well,  his  feet  were  still  in  bad 
condition.  I  told  him  to  keep  our  places  while  I  made  a 
dash  for  the  restaurant.  It  had  been  closed,  but  bread 
and  wine  and  water  were  for  sale  in  a  room  farther  on. 
A  soldier  blocked  the  entrance,  turning  his  back  to  it  as 
he  watched  a  comrade  on  the  platform.  The  crowd,  from 
behind  me,  pressed  on;  our  train  was  liable  to  start  at  any 
moment,  without  warning. 

"If  you  are  not  going  in,  may  I  pass? "  I  asked. 

"No!  I  won't  let  you  pass!  Soldiers  first!"  he  ex- 
ploded. His  face  was  burned  red,  his  eyes  were  blood- 
shot, his  hair  and  moustache  were  full  of  dust  and  stained 
by  smoke. 

Finally  I  succeeded  in  getting  back  to  the  train  with  a 
loaf  of  sour  bread  and  a  quart  of  vinegary  white  wine.  I 
had  secured  also  a  bottle  of  water,  but  on  the  platform 
an  officer  took  it  from  me,  saying  simply,  "For  a  soldier." 

Some  of  our  fellow-travellers  had  left  the  compartment, 
and  others  had  come;  from  this  point  on,  the  train  was 
open  to  the  unprivileged.  Next  to  me  sat  a  refined, 
sweet-looking  young  woman  with  three  small  children 
including  a  tiny  baby.  The  children  were  so  white  and 
quiet,  and  she  was  so  drawn  and  weary,  that  I  asked  her  a 
frank  question  or  two. 

They  had  been  on  the  way  since  the  day  before,  and  their 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         195 

food  had  given  out;  she  and  the  children  had  had  no 
morsel  to  eat  since  dawn.  She  explained  very  simply  that 
the  crush  before  all  refreshment-rooms  was  so  great  that 
she  could  not  struggle  there  with  her  babies ;  and  she  dared 
not  take  them  out  of  a  station,  nor  leave  them  in  the  train, 
because  there  was  no  schedule  for  stopping  or  starting; 
and  unless  she  met  her  husband  as  agreed  at  Tours  that 
night,  she  might  never  meet  him  again  and  would  not 
know  what  to  do. 

Among  us,  we  were  able  to  give  her  and  the  children  all 
they  needed. 

A  handsome,  fair-haired,  well-dressed  boy  of  sixteen  had 
taken  a  vacant  place  next  to  Paul;  he  alone  offered  nothing. 
Paul  asked  when  he  had  last  eaten,  and  learned  that  his  case 
was  similar  to  the  lady's  though  he  had  tried  fighting  the 
crowd  and  had  failed.  By  now,  all  we  had  left  for  dinner 
was  one  chicken  sandwich  and  what  I  had  just  bought; 
we  gave  him  the  sandwich  and  divided  the  remainder 
in  three.  He  accepted  with  a  simplicity  which  seemed 
all  the  more  graceful  when,  shortly  after,  he  took  out  a 
heavy  silver  cigarette  case  and  offered  us  gold-tipped 
Egyptian  cigarettes. 

"I  don't  remember  when  I  slept  last,"  he  suddenly 
remarked,  with  drooping  eyelids.  "If  I'm  sleeping  when 
we  reach  Tours,  and  you  happen  to  be  awake,  will  you 
rouse  me?" 

Whereupon,  with  the  complete  faith  of  youth,  he  fell 
asleep  sitting  upright;  and  was  roused  by  Paul  some  hours 
later.  He  left  us  then,  as  did  the  mother  and  the  small 
children. 

An  elderly  lady  with  two  tall  daughters,  a  consumptive 
son-in-law,  and  a  grandson  of  twelve,  crowded  into  our 
compartment,  bringing  at  least  a  dozen  bags  and  packages 


196         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

besides  a  huge  bandbox  and  three  dogs.  All  the  family 
were  in  the  last  stages  of  exhaustion,  and  very  dirty.  They 
had  put  on  their  best  clothes  for  flight,  and  wore  much 
jewellery,  including  diamonds  of  considerable  value;  the 
unmarried  daughter  had  on  a  hat  with  big  ostrich  plumes 
sticking  upright,  probably  worth  many  pieces  of  gold 
when  washed. 

"We  are  Belgian  refugees  who  had  gone  to  Paris  for 
safety;  and  see  where  we  are  now!"  the  elderly  lady  said. 
"We  had  to  abandon  our  trunks  at  the  station,  and  though 
we  had  plenty  of  money,  first-class  tickets  were  refused  us. 
Sixty-seven  hours  spent  in  a  cattle-box,  packed  in  on 
wooden  benches,  unable  to  wash  or  to  stretch,  unable  to  get 
out  to  buy  food,  for  we  were  locked  in !  The  horrors  of 
that  unseemly  journey:  men,  women,  children.  .  .  ." 

Through  what  was  left  of  the  night,  they  slept  solidly. 
Soon  after  daybreak,  the  married  daughter  left  us  with  her 
husband,  the  boy,  and  the  largest  of  the  dogs.  The  boy 
was  so  drunk  with  sleep  that,  when  told  to  kiss  his  grand- 
mother good-bye,  he  solemnly  held  out  his  hand  and  said 
he  was  glad  to  meet  her.  At  Angouleme,  we  were  able 
to  get  our  first  decent  food  and  hot  coffee  since  starting 
from  Paris — for  Paul  and  myself,  twenty-four  hours,  for 
these  refugees,  three  entire  days  and  nights.  When  the 
train  was  once  more  on  its  way,  I  learned  incidentally  that, 
upon  reaching  Angouleme,  all  that  had  remained  as  provi- 
sions to  these  ladies  was  one  bunch  of  grapes,  and  a  small 
phial  of  water  they  had  saved  for  the  dogs. 

Their  turn  came,  to  leave  us;  and  the  aspect  of  the 
travellers  changed.  Invalid  soldiers  arrived  in  hordes. 
Ill  rather  than  wounded,  most  seemed  to  be;  few  showed 
bandages  of  any  sort,  and  when  these  appeared,  they  were 
on  arms  or  feet. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          197 

The  man  next  to  me  was  weak  and  emaciated;  said  a 
fragment  of  shell  had  struck  him  in  the  side  and  hurled  him 
a  distance  of  six  yards.  The  skin  had  not  been  broken, 
but  the  nervous  shock  had  been  such  that  he  couldn't 
recover. 

"Never  was  so  well  taken  care  of  as  in  the  hospital," 
he  went  on.  "But  I  couldn't  stay  in  bed,  couldn't  keep 
still.  So  they're  letting  me  go  home  to  my  wife  in  Mar- 
seille. Get  dizzy  when  I  stand  or  walk  or  try  to  lift  any- 
thing. Never  was  strong;  had  been  discharged  from  the 
army,  because  of  my  poor  constitution;  but  when  the  war 
came  I  wanted  to  carry  my  musket  once  more  and  face  the 
enemy,  though  it  shouldn't  be  for  more  than  one  day. 
I'd  held  through  four  days  of  hard  fighting  when  I  got 
knocked  out.  Won't  have  to  fight  again,  but  I  can  say 
I've  done  something." 

We  stopped  at  a  station.  Nurses  came  to  ask  if  they 
needed  anything.  Hot  coffee  and  grapes  were  distributed, 
bread  was  offered  and  refused. 

"Everybody  was  so  kind  to  us  this  morning,  that  we 
all  ate  too  much!"  the  soldiers  chorused. 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  young  mother  and  three 
children  of  the  night  before. 

My  friend  reached  for  his  provision-bag  and  drew  out  a 
filthy  glass  which  he  held  to  the  spout  of  a  coffee-pot,  and 
then  gravely  emptied. 

"Disgusting,  the  way  we  eat  and  drink!"  he  observed 
to  me.  "We  get  so  dirty  that  we're  used  to  it,  and  don't 
even  mind.  Seemed  quite  natural  for  me  to  drink  out  of 
that  glass.  But  as  I  finished,  I  said  to  myself,  'Wouldn't 
my  wife  catch  it,  if  she  dared  give  me  such  a  glass  at 
home!'"  Laughing,  he  tore  his  coat  open.  On  this 
sweltering  day  he  wore  the  full  French  uniform  of  blue 


198         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

cloth  outer  coat,  beneath  it  a  tight-fitting  cloth  tunic,  a 
cotton  shirt  under  that,  and  a  flannel  shirt  against  his 
skin.  The  last  two  garments  were  stained  brown  and 
black.  "My  wife  will  scream  when  she  sees  this!  I  can't 
change  or  have  them  washed,  because  I  haven't  got  any- 
thing else  to  put  on.  They  pretend  to  wash  them,  in 
the  regiment,  but  it's  only  steam-bleaching  and  disinfect- 
ing. Do  you  think  we  mind?  No — not  once  we've  got 
used  to  it!" 

"Wonder  why  the  English  aren't  the  same?"  a  Gascon 
soldier  asked  meditatively.  He  was  big,  burly,  en- 
thusiastic, with  round  cheeks  and  bright  dark  eyes. 
"They're  spick-and-span.  Don't  know  how  they  manage. 
Never  saw  anything  like  their  equipment;  and  as  for  their 
food — why,  it's  like  going  to  the  hotel ! " 

By  now,  the  compartment  was  filled  beyond  standing- 
room,  and  the  convalescents  talked  merrily  about  the  war 
as  over,  for  them,  and  very  near  its  end  anyhow.  Ab- 
solute victory  was  assured,  of  course.  They  argued  as  to 
whether  the  decisive  engagement  would  come  at  the  be- 
ginning of  October,  or  only  at  the  close.  One  hazarded 
the  opinion  that  it  might  not  come  before  November.  The 
faces  of  his  comrades  clouded,  as  they  roundly  rebuked 
him  for  a  pessimist. 

Our  approach  to  Bordeaux  dispelled  such  gloomy 
thoughts.  The  Gascon  made  a  leap  across  various  feet 
and  knees  to  reach  the  window,  and  waved  frantically. 

"The  wife  of  Alphonse,  at  the  door  of  his  house!"  he 
cried  to  us.  "When  she  sees  me,  she  will  know  her  man  is 
well!"  He  ended  with  a  wild  shout;  she  recognised  him, 
and  waved  gladly.  Twenty  yards  beyond,  there  was 
some  one  else  to  be  greeted.  At  a  street  crossing  where 
we  halted,  he  caused  an  old  man  nearly  to  die  of  fright  by 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         199 

grasping  his  hand  violently,  and  shouting  into  his  ear 
that  his  son  was  safe. 

We  rolled  into  the  station.  Soldiers  streamed  from  the 
train,  emigrants  followed;  our  conscripts  had  long  since 
left  us.  An  Italian  boy  stood  weeping  because  his  bicycle 
could  not  be  found.  Officials  demanded  passes  from 
Frenchmen  and  passports  from  foreigners.  The  calling 
of  cabmen  and  the  whistling  of  newsboys  reached  us. 
And  we  knew  that  we  were  in  the  improvised  capital. 

The  famous  author  who  has  described  desperate  revels 
under  the  Mask  of  the  Red  Death  would  have  under- 
stood Bordeaux,  I  think,  better  than  those  who  have 
been  scornful  or  righteous  on  the  subject.  The  sham 
pleasure  found  there  in  mockery  of  fate,  and  in  blindness 
of  existing  conditions,  had  the  quality  of  a  last  resolve  to 
perish  lightly. 

Looking  back  upon  those  days,  they  appear  the  most 
unreal  in  all  our  experiences;  certainly  the  most  evanescent 
before  efforts  of  memory.  Yet  there  we  witnessed,  beside 
episodes  to  make  one  despair,  others  which  gave  early 
intimation  of  the  heights  to  which  the  nation  would  rise 
under  prolonged  adversity. 

One  Sunday,  towards  the  end  of  September,  I  went 
to  keep  an  appointment,  at  noon,  with  a  Cabinet  Minister 
in  the  public  building  improvised  for  his  use.  Our  talk 
was  to  be  short,  coming  immediately  before  lunch;  and  I 
was  surprised  to  be  kept  waiting  in  the  large  bare  hall 
which  served  as  ante-room.  The  stately  head  usher,  in 
impeccable  evening  dress  with  a  handsome  chain  of  cut 
steel  round  his  neck,  presided  at  a  battered  old  table,  and 
could  offer  me  only  a  choice  between  two  arm-chairs  whose 
silk  was  so  tattered  and  the  lining  so  soiled  that  I  preferred 


200         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

to  stand.  Yet  somehow  he  was  no  less  grand  than  when 
last  I  had  seen  him  in  Paris,  surrounded  by  the  luxury  of 
one  of  the  Republic's  most  splendid  palaces. 

"The  Council  of  Ministers  is  not  ended,"  he  said,  ob- 
serving that  I  consulted  my  watch;  I  had  wondered  if  I 
were  forgotten.  The  huissier  added:  "Ah!  I  think  I 
hear  the  Minister." 

With  velvet  tread,  he  left  me.  A  moment  later,  the 
door  was  thrown  open  majestically. 

The  cabinet  I  entered  was  large,  and  becomingly  fur- 
nished, with  some  of  the  objects  removed  from  Paris  to 
escape  the  Germans,  perhaps.  But  I  had  no  thought  for 
this  at  the  time.  My  attention  was  drawn  at  once  to  the 
tall  figure  in  the  long  black  coat,  standing  near  the  desk, 
with  bowed  head  and  stooping  shoulders,  holding  listlessly 
a  morocco  portfolio  as  if  it  had  been  forgotten  there  in  his 
hand.  He  did  not  hear  my  step,  and  did  not  move  as  I 
advanced.  I  stopped.  The  slight  noise  of  the  door 
closing  upon  the  usher  made  him  raise  his  head.  The 
face  was  haggard,  the  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears. 

"They  have  destroyed  Reims!"  He  looked  towards 
me  an  instant,  and  looked  away;  his  words  had  come 
slowly,  his  voice  had  been  hoarse  and  not  more  than  just 
audible. 

As  I  started,  unable  to  believe,  and  not  finding  a  phrase 
to  express  the  amazement,  the  indignation  which  rose 
within  me,  he  spoke  again : 

"Us  nous  out  dttruit  Reims!  The  news  came  while  we 
sat  in  Council.  The  telegrams  are  here!" 

With  his  right  hand  he  struck  the  portfolio  he  held  in 
his  left.  He  continued,  more  and  more  quickly  and 
clearly  as  he  progressed : 

"They  bombarded  the  Cathedral,  and  wrecked  it,  from 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         201 

vengeance,  without  strategic  necessity  or  excuse;  they 
bombarded  the  other  monuments  of  the  town,  systemati- 
cally, mercilessly.  The  fate  of  Reims  may  be  worse  than 
that  of  Lou  vain.  And  I  repeat  it — no  strategic  motive! 
I  know  the  orders  we  had  given;  I  know  the  measures 
taken.  I  declare  to  you  upon  my  honour,  as  a  Cabinet 
Minister,  that  not  a  tower  was  used  militarily ;  we  had  but 
our  wounded  in  the  Cathedral,  and  theirs  too.  The  Ger- 
mans knew  this.  No  excuse — only  vengeance!  And  the 
proof  of  what  I  tell  you  is  here." 

His  hands  trembling,  his  voice  quivering,  he  began  to 
draw  papers  from  his  portfolio. 

I  went  out  into  a  town  which  did  not  yet  know  of  this 
latest  crime  against  the  dead,  against  the  living,  against 
all  that  are  to  be;  the  ruin  of  this  gem  of  line  and  colour, 
of  architecture  and  rose-windows,  this  sublime  and  in- 
tensely beautiful  Reims. 

But  as  I  saw  the  news  break,  first  with  incredulity, 
then  with  extreme  fury,  I  saw,  too,  the  spirit  of  France 
begin  to  change:  I  saw  that  Frenchmen  had  grasped  the 
nature  of  their  war.  What  the  havoc  in  Belgium,  the 
north,  and  Lorraine  had  prepared,  what  the  winning 
of  the  Marne  and  the  turn  of  the  Aisne  had  confirmed,  the 
bombardment  of  Reims  concluded. 

There  was  no  further  exaggeration  of  what  might  be 
accomplished;  but  panic  and  despair  vanished  from  men's 
thoughts.  Calm  and  balance  being  restored,  those  al- 
ready brave  became  resolute;  most  of  the  weak  became 
brave,  and  the  rest  were  so  effectively  driven  to  the  wall 
that  they  vanished  from  reckoning.  Firm  rather  than  rash, 
proud  but  not  haughty,  dignified  without  trace  of  ar- 
rogance, France  started,  in  a  complete  solidarity  which 
knew  no  faltering,  to  retrieve  her  disasters — to  make  good 


202         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

her  honour — to  contribute  if  need  were  her  last  conceivable 
resource,  her  every  drop  of  manly  blood,  in  defence  of  re- 
awakened ideals. 

We  left  Bordeaux,  and  its  strange,  artificial  life;  we 
travelled,  without  an  objective  as  without  a  home.  The 
thought  of  the  war  brooded  upon  Paul's  spirits  like  a  great- 
winged  bird  of  evil  omen  obscuring  the  sun  and  the  skies, 
yet  he  was  restless  when  out  of  touch  with  those  who  had 
done  the  fighting.  Constant  change  of  scene  and  of  peo- 
ple was  all  I  could  devise  for  his  relief.  We  were  in  Mar- 
seille when  the  first  British  troops  arrrived  from  India 
and  we  saw  the  generous-hearted  local  population  go 
madly  enthusiastic  over  the  natives  while  we  ourselves 
were  thrilled  by  the  calm,  the  dignity,  the  practical  good- 
sense,  and  the  deep-lying,  unemotional  patriotism  of  the 
officers.  We  were  at  Cette  for  the  landing  of  French 
black  troops,  their  brightly  coloured  uniforms  grouping 
in  strangely  unexpected  pictures  on  the  otherwise  deserted 
quays.  We  were  in  various  trains  bound  for  all  sorts  of 
places,  casting  our  lot  with  convalescent  soldiers  and 
listening  as  they  yarned  their  adventures. 

Paul  tells  me  I  was  closely  watched,  most  of  the  time, 
by  a  big  man  with  a  long,  fair  beard  and  blue  eyes  which 
saw  sideways — a  secret  agent,  evidently.  What  might 
I  be  about,  indeed,  an  old  foreigner  wandering  all  over 
the  country  in  company  of  a  French  boy  unrelated  to  him 
but  passed  off  as  a  nephew?  A  multitude  of  excellent 
people  behind  the  lines  felt,  at  the  time,  that  they  must 
do  something  patriotic  besides  talking;  and  spy-chasing 
supplied  both  excitement  and  notoriety.  I  don't  doubt 
but  it  was  an  exceptionally  virtuous  victim  of  the  disease 
called  acute  espionitis  who  originally  drew  the  attention  of 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         203 

a  minor  official  to  my  case.  What  surprises  me  is  the 
facility  with  which  I  was  granted  all  the  visas  I  demanded. 
Perhaps  it  was  so  that  I  might  compromise  both  myself 
and  my  accomplices  thoroughly.  When  Paul,  after  some 
anxious  days  during  which  he  had  observed  while  keeping 
his  own  counsel,  confided  in  me  at  last,  and  drew  my 
attention  to  the  man  who  had  made  himself  my  shadow, 
I  went  promptly  back  to  Marseille,  intending  to  reach 
Paris  if  possible.  This  unforeseen  return  allowed  us  to 
connect  with  a  letter  we  had  otherwise  missed.  It  brought 
news  that  Paul's  father  lay  gravely  wounded  in  a  Ver- 
sailles hospital;  it  gave  me  a  reason  for  leaving  a  region 
where  my  presence  might  well  appear  unjustified,  and 
going  where  it  was  imperative  that  my  ward  and  I  should 
be. 

Convalescent  wounded  were  travelling  back  in  great 
numbers.  The  character  they  revealed  was  cheering 
and  the  impressions  to  be  gathered  from  them  were  in- 
vigorating blasts.  Never  have  I  seen  such  earnestness 
and  simplicity  as  in  these  men  wearing  shabby  uniforms 
and  shapeless  boots,  who  liked  to  talk  best  of  what  their 
comrades,  not  they  themselves,  had  done;  who  pretended 
to  no  extensive  knowledge  or  unusual  prowess;  and  who, 
sore  from  half-healed  wounds,  often  went  foodless. 

When  we  neared  Lyon,  all  the  compartments  were 
crowded;  in  ours,  there  was  not  standing-room,  nor  in  the 
corridor  giving  access  to  it.  At  one  station,  a  tiny,  red- 
faced,  fair-haired  soldier  hurled  himself  in.  Struggling 
and  elbowing,  he  spat  foul  curses  at  the  soldiers  who 
advised  him  to  seek  a  place  elsewhere. 

A  tall,  slim,  particularly  nice-looking  young  infantry- 
man, wearing  a  marvellously  shabby  uniform  and  an  in- 
describable cap,  told  him  to  behave  decently,  at  least; 


204         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

whereupon  the  little  soldier  struck  the  infantryman.  The 
row  degenerated  into  a  fight;  the  invader  tried  to  draw  his 
bayonet;  other  soldiers  joined  in. 

"Be  careful — don't  hurt  him — he's  ill!"  cried  out  the 
man  who  had  received  the  first  blow. 

"Yes,  yes!"  chorused  the  others,  grappling  with  him 
as  gently  as  they  might,  and  ejecting  him,  even  yet  with 
calmness  and  method,  upon  the  platform.  A  window- 
pane  had  been  broken  in  the  process,  but  no  one  was  hurt. 

"Drunk,"  the  word  passed  round,  while  the  first  in- 
fantryman whispered  to  Paul:  "Yes — perhaps  one  glass 
too  much.  But  he's  insane,  too.  More  men  have  gone 
mad  in  this  war  than  anybody  knows." 

A  second  infantryman  spoke: 

"He  would  have  been  shot  for  this,  in  the  army  zone. 
Now,  he  will  only  be  sent  to  prison." 

"No.  Nothing  will  be  done  to  him,  I  hope.  He  didn't 
know  he  was  striking  an  officer."  All  turned  to  the 
speaker.  It  was  the  tall,  nice-looking  young  infantryman 
in  the  shabbiest  of  uniforms. 

"What  officer?"  the  soldiers  asked,  puzzled. 

"Oh,  only  a  sous-officier.    I'm  a  sergeant." 

"And  you  let  him  attack  you — you  didn't  exercise  your 
authority " 

"Better  let  the  thing  pass.  I  haven't  got  my  stripes 
on.  If  I  had  told  him  my  rank  and  he  hadn't  believed  it 
and  had  struck  again,  I  should  have  had  to  order  you  to 
arrest  him.  I  wouldn't  serve  a  comrade  so  when  he  isn't 
himself.  He  couldn't  hurt  me;  better  to  let  it  pass  as  a 
soldiers'  row.  I'm  not  proud.  Couldn't  be,  with  clothes 
like  these!"  He  smiled  as  he  glanced  down.  "You  see, 
I  was  promoted  on  the  field,  and  shot  five  minutes  after- 
wards. They  took  me  to  the  hospital,  and  then  sent  me 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         205 

down  here,  and  now  I'm  off  to  the  front  again,  with  my 
same  old  clothes  and  no  stripes.  No  gold  braid  left; 
not  even  red  for  corporals.  And,  of  course,  no  clothes. 
Look  at  this  cap!"  It  was  battered  out  of  all  shape  and 
washed  into  many  tones.  "My  capote  is  bad  enough, 
isn't  it,  with  only  two  buttons  left?  Well,  look  at  these 
trousers!"  He  unbuttoned  the  coat.  On  his  left  knee 
was  a  huge  triangular  rent  roughly  pinned  up;  on  the  other 
leg  was  the  mark  of  a  small  hole,  to  which  he  pointed: 
"This  is  where  I  was  shot.  Here — the  left  knee — a  spent 
fragment  of  shell  struck  me  with  just  enough  force  to  tear 
the  cloth  without  scratching  me.  Funny,  eh?" 

"What  has  gone  wrong  with  the  clothes  supply?"  Paul 
asked. 

"Needed  for  the  1914  class;  and  men  promoted  to  drill 
them,  or  else  on  the  field,  used  up  all  the  braid  before  my 
turn  came.  What  does  it  matter?  My  captain  tore  his 
off.  Several  of  our  officers  had  been  killed,  while  a  number 
of  men  had  been  saved  by  their  sacks.  Only  the  captain 
and  one  lieutenant  were  left.  The  captain  took  the 
sack  from  a  dead  soldier  lying  near  him,  and  put  it  on 
himself.  Then  the  lieutenant  was  killed  by  several  bullets 
at  the  same  moment.  'That's  the  gold,'  said  the  captain. 
And  whipping  out  his  knife,  he  ripped  the  braid  from 
his  cap  and  collar  and  sleeves.  'They  have  special  marks- 
men for  picking  out  officers,'  he  said.  'It's  enough  for 
me  that  you  boys  know  me,  and  I  want  you  to  have  one 
officer  left  to  help  you  win  the  fight.'  And  we  did ! " 

Half  an  hour  later,  while  Red  Cross  ladies  were  handing 
in  supplies  at  some  station — the  men  having  been  without 
food  all  day,  save  for  what  Paul,  being  well  provided  for 
the  purpose,  had  given  them — the  little  mad  soldier  reap- 
peared. He  had  lost  his  cap,  but  recovered  his  wits. 


206         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Let  me  come  in — I'm  all  right — I  won't  misbehave — 
I  want  to  be  with  my  copains / "  he  pleaded.  "I've  been  in 
the  next  carriage,  where  an  old  lady  rubbed  cologne  on  my 
head.  I'm  all  right!" 

At  a  sign  from  the  young  sergeant  without  stripes,  the 
soldiers  helped  him  in. 

"Ah,  you  are  real  French  soldiers!"  the  ex-madman 
exclaimed,  beginning  to  embrace  all  he  could  reach.  "  I'm 
taken  that  way  sometimes — now,"  he  concluded. 

Harmony  was  restored;  silence  fell;  most  of  the  men 
slept.  Suddenly  a  breezy  voice  exclaimed : 

"Eh,  thou,  the  Lyonnais!" 

The  second  infantryman  was  addressing  the  sergeant 
without  stripes,  who  had  alluded,  a  while  before,  to  his 
origin. 

"Thou,  the  Lyonnese!  I've  been  thinking.  Try  not 
to  get  up  any  more  exhibitions  in  that  town,  wilt  thou? 
Thy  1870  Lyon  Exhibition  brought  us  the  war.  Thy 
1894  Exhibition  got  our  President  murdered  for  us.  And 

now  thy  1914  Exhibition Enough,  enough!  Don't 

ever  go  and  do  it  again!" 

After  the  laugh  had  quieted  down,  Paul  whispered  to 
me: 

"There's  a  new  spirit  they  all  show.  In  the  train  from 
Paris  to  Bordeaux,  it  was  courage  and  enthusiasm.  Now 
it's  better — courage  and  patience." 

VI 

WE  WALKED  on  the  red-veined  marble,  of  which  Alfred 
de  Musset  has  written  that  a  Venus  sleeping  in  the  stone 
shed  her  life-blood  when  mere  steps  were  carved  from  her 
bosom;  we  reached  the  majestic  avenues  of  the  Park,  dull 
only  for  those  who  have  failed  to  seize  the  spirit  of  Ver- 


207 

sallies.  But  our  thoughts  were  not  of  the  place,  nor  of  its 
suggestions. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  we  should  meet  here  after  Paul's 
first  visit  to  the  hospital.  His  white  cheeks  and  com- 
pressed lips  told  me  rather  more  than  was  meant.  For 
whereas  I  supposed  Clermont  dead,  some  slight  hope 
lingered.  Paul  said  so,  when  able  to  speak;  and  a  moment 
later,  explained  his  emotion : 

"Father  was  very  kind  to  me.  Like  a  real  father — 
almost."  After  hesitating,  he  added:  "I  don't  suppose 
fathers  are  absolutely  gentle  as  children — are  they?  That's 
why  I  said  'almost'." 

Two  bad  wounds,  he  went  on  to  tell  me;  and  a  complica- 
tion worse  than  either.  A  body-wound,  from  a  piece  of 
shell  now  removed  but  followed  by  inflammation ;  and  the 
bone  of  the  left  thigh  splintered  by  a  bullet,  for  which  the 
doctors  wanted  to  amputate. 

"He  won't  consent,  because  phlebitis  has  developed  in 
the  other  leg.  The  campaign  did  it;  he  was  never  strong, 
you  remember.  So  when  the  doctors  say  he  will  probably 
die  of  blood-poisoning  unless  they  take  off  the  left  leg  near 
the  hip,  he  answers  by  asking  how  long  after  that  they  will 
want  to  take  off  the  right  leg  above  the  knee?  I  know 
most  of  this  from  the  nurse;  he's  too  weak  to  talk  much." 

"And  her  opinion ?" 

"She  daren't  say  he's  wrong  to  resist;  but  she  doesn't 
say  he  will  live." 

We  had  reached  a  broad,  short  avenue  planted  with 
horse-chestnuts;  the  double  row,  whose  symmetry  repre- 
sented columns,  fitted  the  symbol-loving  taste  of  that  day; 
its  title  was  the  Salle  des  Marronniers,  for  in  a  "hall"  the 
King  might  serve  open-air  banquets  which  would  have 
been  unseemly  in  an  "avenue."  Fountains  then  played 


208         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

on  the  four  sides;  only  two  stagnant  basins  remain,  one 
at  each  end,  while  the  length  on  either  hand  is  strewn 
with  mossgrown  busts.  As  Paul  and  I  walked  down  the 
gentle  incline,  our  feet  rustled  upon  a  thick  carpet  of 
leaves  glowing  with  garnet-hued  jewels;  the  trees  which 
had  scattered  them  sighed,  melancholy  and  unfathomable, 
while  we  trod  upon  their  lost  fruit  and  cast  garments. 

"Do  you  know,  I  am  just  beginning  to  understand 
father,"  Paul  said  slowly.  "If  we  were  both  to  live,  we 
might  get  on  well  together.  I  was  wrong,  in  much  of 
what  used  to  happen." 

"Paul!" 

"Yes.  You  see,  our  new  generation  is  too  different 
from  his.  Probably  he'd  been  brought  up  very  much  as  he 
wanted  me  to  be.  When  I  couldn't  take  the  sort  of 
management  which  had  suited  him,  he  thought  I  was 
abnormal.  He  was  sensitive  because  he  ought  to  have 
been  higher  up  in  the  world,  and  he  knew  what  had  kept 
him  down;  the  only  single  thing  he  had  left  was  his  honesty, 
and  when  he  believed  I  had  stained  that — why!  what 
wonder  he  cast  me  off?  Besides,  we  mustn't  forget  he 
loved  mother." 

"I  agree  the  main  fault  rested  with  her,"  I  assented 
dryly. 

"Oh,  don't  take  that  tone!"  Paul  cried,  with  genuine 
pain.  "  Even  before  she  was  cut  down,  when  she  had  but 
a  small  idea  of  danger  and  thought  only  I  was  threatened, 
she  wanted  to  protect  me  or  to  die  with  me.  It  was  as  if 
she  had  waked  from  a  dream  to  become  herself." 

Judging  that  the  solution  in  Clermont's  case,  while 
leaving  no  doubt  as  to  its  nature,  might  delay  its  coming, 
I  took  a  furnished  flat  belonging  to  an  officer.  The  house 
was  a  tall  old  mansion  whose  windows  commanded  an 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         209 

extensive  view.  From  my  arm-chair  I  looked  out  on  the 
horticultural  gardens,  erst- while  the  royal  kitchen-gardens, 
with  their  plants  and  trees  and  green-draped  walls.  To 
my  left  was  a  group  of  buildings  stern  without  loss  of 
grace  in  their  ancient  dignity;  straight  before  me,  beyond 
the  gardens,  I  caught  glimpses  of  the  lake  called  Swiss  to 
commemorate  the  affection  of  the  Great  King's  guard;  to 
the  right  rose  those  stately  Hundred  Steps  with  the  broad 
sweep  of  terrace  leading  to  the  Palace  itself,  whose  utmost 
splendours,  scorning  the  vulgarity  of  a  town,  lie  south  and 
west.  There  I  would  wait  until  Paul  came  home  from 
the  hospital,  when  I  could  not  walk  out  in  the  Park. 

The  landscape  would  smile  under  a  crisp  autumn  sun, 
or  be  grim  under  beating  rain  or  chasing  cloud;  and  later, 
revealed  trees  and  shrubs  richly  glistening  with  coats  of 
ice  held  on  tiny  twigs  like  long  diamonds  of  rare  lustre  and 
matchless  size;  but  it  was  always  calm,  noble,  inspiring, 
and  withal  consoling.  Often,  a  sunset  of  marvellous 
splendour  would  paint  the  skies  in  almost  Southern  hues; 
or  else  delicate  beauties  of  the  pearl  would  blend  with 
mysterious  fires  of  the  opal.  I  have  heard  men  wonder 
why  Louis  XIV  chose  Versailles  as  site  for  the  palatial 
monument  to  his  glories.  I  know  that  he  turned  his  own 
room  to  the  east,  whence  he  alone  received  the  kisses  of 
the  rising  sun  to  which  he  compared  himself  on  shields, 
and  in  frescoes,  and  in  statuary.  But  I  suspect  he  came 
once  at  sunset,  and  the  depths  which  must  exist  in  even 
such  a  nature  as  his  bade  him  remain:  and  those  colours 
and  masses  which  cheered  me  may  have  brought  him 
solace,  in  that  old  age  of  martial  reverses,  of  dwindling 
prestige,  of  taxing  vanity,  and  of  irksome  tyranny  be- 
neath the  bigoted  sway  of  the  wife  who  could  not  be  his 
queen. 


210         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

At  each  return,  Paul  would  talk  briefly  of  his  father's 
condition;  and  then,  after  an  evident  effort  to  say  more, 
would  plunge  into  another  subject.  I  supposed  anxiety 
to  be  the  cause  for  this;  but  as  time  wore  on,  I  saw  there 
must  be  a  more  complex  reason.  It  even  occurred  to  me 
that  Paul  might  have  reacted  against  the  sympathy  pro- 
voked by  the  first  view  of  his  father  at  the  hospital,  and 
that  he  shrank  from  betraying  himself. 

But  what  power  of  mind  or  of  soul  made  me  feel,  pres- 
ently, that  Paul  was  drifting  away  from  me?  I  would  feel 
a  thought  as  he  drove  it  from  him — an  unsounded  thought 
I  could  feel  and  not  read. 

The  hospital  was  open  to  visitors  for  only  a  short  time 
each  afternoon.  With  his  father's  consent  and  my  ap- 
proval, Paul  had  joined  a  society  for  military  preparation 
and  was  furthermore  taking  lessons  in  boxing  and  fencing, 
and  in  the  theory  of  war.  There  was  already  talk  of  call- 
ing out  the  class  which  came  second  before  his;  and  al- 
though I  did  not  seriously  believe  boys  of  seventeen  or 
eighteen  would  be  incorporated,  I  knew  that  he  needed 
occupation.  While  no  change  was  conspicuous  in  him 
since  physical  health  had  returned,  I  could  see  that  his 
nerves  had  not  recovered  from  the  shocks  received. 

A  messenger  came  for  us  both.  We  knew  what  was 
meant.  Clermont  had  expressed  the  wish  to  see  me  be- 
fore his  end;  once,  when  I  had  gone,  he  had  seemed  self- 
absorbed  and  embarrassed  so  that  I  had  not  gone  back; 
but  he  had  said,  "I  must  have  a  word  with  you."  The 
head-nurse  was  a  lady  I  had  known  well  in  Paris,  a  major's 
wife;  she  had  promised  to  warn  me  if  possible. 

All  was  very  still.  None  among  the  patients  looked 
towards  the  dying  man;  they  were  still,  even  to  a  Sene- 
galese, whose  stench  filled  the  air  and  who  showed  his 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         211 

teeth  and  rolled  his  eyes,  whitish  spots  on  a  dusky  skin 
paled  to  grey  ness  under  the  lust  of  a  near-by  death. 

The  boy  did  not  speak,  but  drew  close  and  clasped 
the  thin  hand  that  lay  upon  the  blanket;  he  bent  over  the 
helpless,  all  but  lifeless  form. 

Hard  and  discoloured,  the  man's  lips  tried  to  move. 
Not  a  syllable  was  shaped,  nor  could  the  glassy  eyes  convey 
a  meaning;  but  Paul  understood,  and  took  from  the  other 
hand,  tightly  closed,  a  crumpled  paper. 

Weary,  wasted,  ashen,  the  face,  paler  than  the  pillow 
against  which  it  rested  with  the  poor,  frail,  human  halo 
of  thin  and  faded  hair,  caught  a  gleam  of  light  from  the 
tall  windows  yawning  opposite. 

"Mother — mother "  the  broken  man  said. 

Was  it  on  her  he  called,  who  had  never  been  a  mother  to 
his  son?  Or  was  he,  the  dying  soldier,  harking  back  to  boy- 
hood as  brave  men  do,  and  crying  from  his  soul,  as  those 
falling  on  battlefields  have  been  known  to  call,  to  the  love 
that  has  known  neither  jealous  taint  nor  shadow  of  turning? 

We  laid  him  to  rest  in  a  peaceful  cemetery  hard  by  the 
forest,  where  many  loyal  sons  of  France  and  of  England 
were  to  be  until  war's  alarms  should  cease.  The  short 
service  ended,  Paul  and  I  stayed  on  while  the  wind  eddied 
round  us  in  whirls  of  light  leaves  and  sharp  rain-drops. 

Paul's  hand  sought  mine  for  an  instant  and  withdrew, 
leaving  against  my  palm  that  crumpled  paper  from  the 
hospital. 

The  dying  father  had  made  a  will  bequeathing  to  me  all 
he  owned — his  son. 

On  the  last  night  of  that  desolate  December,  as  Paul 
and  I  sat  watching  and  listening,  he  asked  me  to  tell  him 
of  the  subject  which  had  commanded  the  forty  years 


212         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

which  might  count  as  my  active  life.  For  me,  questions 
of  philosophy  now  lie  buried  so  deep  beneath  the  sands  of 
physical  illusion  in  which  men  put  their  trust,  that  no 
theory,  however  pure,  is  worth  the  resurrection.  I  may 
be  wrong;  those  who  have  not  endured  the  war,  or  those 
who  are  so  constituted  as  to  be  able  to  endure  and  to  for- 
get, may  think  differently.  But  for  my  part,  human 
cataclysms  have  shown  me  how  remote  the  connection  is 
between  theory  and  lif e ;  how  thin  the  illusion  beside  facts 
too  immense  for  immediate  understanding  but  too  terri- 
ble for  an  instant's  evasion,  facts  rising  and  mouthing  and 
mocking  us  on  every  side.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  art  and 
thought  are  to  survive,  they  must  be  both  higher  and 
truer  than  ever  before;  but,  as  their  primordial  condition 
for  existence,  they  must  face  facts  as  never  before  in  the 
history  of  men. 

Yet  for  abuse  to  arise,  facts  must  exist,  as  well  as  for 
use;  one  brings  ignoble,  as  the  other  noble,  proof  of  basic 
truths.  It  was  in  no  spirit  of  apology  for  Germany  that 
I  spoke  to  Paul  of  the  Great  Law  of  human  tendencies, 
distorted  for  the  furtherance  of  crime : 

"If  we  care  to  look  deeper  than  the  social  divisions  in 
which  men  are  conscious  of  their  activities,  we  find  them 
subject  to  a  twofold  law  of  racial  destiny  whose  character 
is  geographical.  Living  his  life,  responding  to  his  moods 
and  those  of  others,  attaining  success  or  accepting  failure, 
man  is  bound  by  powerful  roots  to  the  region  in  which  he 
elects  to  think  and  to  act,  under  the  influence  of  soil. 

"Each  nation  possessing  natural  rather  than  artificial 
boundaries  will  have  as  its  characteristic  either  waterways 
or  mountains  or  plains;  and  with  this  physical  preponder- 
ance corresponds  a  human  type  with  marked  psychological 
qualities.  Where  the  country  is  extensive  and  possesses 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         213 

varied  aspects,  one  type  may  dominate  in  one  broad  region 
and  others  elsewhere:  so-called  national  unity  then  be- 
comes more  difficult  to  assure  than  where  the  soil  provides 
one  strong  and  one  or  two  weak  parties. 

"Of  the  three  types,  the  most  highly  evolved  is  that 
living  on  waterways.  Gifted  with  courage,  endurance, 
enterprise,  initiative,  imagination,  these  men  are  the 
creators,  the  explorers,  the  rulers  at  home  and  oversea. 
They  enjoy  the  advantages  of  moisture,  of  freely  circulat- 
ing air,  of  extensive  and  ready  communications:  they  are 
furthermore  in  nearest  contact  with  the  inner  sources  of 
the  earth's  waters,  on  which  physical  life  depends. 

"Next,  comes  the  type  living  on  mountains.  Pure  air 
and  wide  vistas  may  here  prompt  the  mind  to  lofty  pur- 
poses, but  the  sternness  of  existence  develops  a  hard  char- 
acter, while  difficulties  of  exchange  lead  first  to  narrowness 
of  outlook  and  then  to  a  spirit  of  compromise.  Yet  races 
that  dwell  on  mountains  attain  to  inspiration  because  they 
are  not  so  remote  from  the  earth's  inner  waters  as  might 
appear.  For  mountain  lakes  are  often  in  clefts  descending 
to  the  deep-hidden  springs,  and  offering  the  next  most 
direct  connection,  after  that  of  open  waterways. 

"The  type  living  on  interior  plains  is  the  third.  The 
struggle  of  these  men  is  the  hardest,  their  reward  in  beauty 
and  in  facilities  the  scantiest;  and,  lacking  water-courses, 
atmospheric  moisture,  assured  air-currents,  their  develop- 
ment is  the  most  retarded.  Yet  the  very  conditions  under 
which  they  must  thrive,  if  they  would  live,  .  lay  solid 
foundations  for  character,  and  teach  means  for  quick 
profiting  by  every  chance.  It  has  been  noted  that  the 
fruit  richest  in  water  may  come  from  the  dryest  soil,  where 
deep-reaching  roots  feel  out  after  remote  sustenance 
from  hidden  sources.  So,  when  plains  are  opened  under 


214         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

the  influence  of  newly  turned  or  discovered  waterways, 
the  development  of  these  inhabitants  may  be  enviably 
rapid  and  sure. 

"In  his  obedience  to  evolution,  which  he  is  so  prone 
to  deny  whenever  conscience  whispers  that  he  has  not 
done  his  duty  towards  himself  and  others,  man  is  driven 
to  seek  lands  rich  with  waterways.  Though  he  may 
pretext  fortune  or  ambition,  he  is  answering  voices  which 
he  rarely  stops  to  analyse.  But  while  he  may  stray  as  he 
searches,  he  does  not  wander  blindly  in  any  direction.  If 
he  be  brave  and  hardy,  apt  for  fighting  and  conquering, 
he  will  be  prompted  to  advance,  ever  struggling,  against 
the  direction  of  the  earth  as  it  revolves  upon  itself.  When 
he  is  weakening  and  grows  covetous  rather  than  ambi- 
tious, he  will  be  content  to  advance  with  the  rotation,  in- 
viting a  minimum  of  resistance. 

"Where  nations  of  their  sovereign  will  renounced 
westward  openings,  they  could  injure  none  save  them- 
selves. Where  they  pursued  such  openings  honestly,  by 
methods  recognised  in  law  and  established  in  precedent, 
the  possible  prejudice  to  others  became  a  matter  of  prestige 
or  of  commercial  reckoning.  But  all  nations  did  not  rest 
content  with  these  alternatives:  some,  forgetful  that  mor- 
als count  above  commercial  advisability  or  even  national 
aspiration,  claimed  the  right  to  opportunity  without  ob- 
servance of  those  elementary  honesties  which  are  de- 
manded, as  a  condition  for  esteem,  from  collectivities  as 
from  individuals.  The  nation  which,  desiring  greatness, 
wantonly  plans  the  sacrifice  of  others,  her  moral  equals  or 
betters,  merely  because  she  wishes  to  expand,  is  on  the  level 
of  the  man  who,  feeling  the  call  of  genius  but  lacking 
means  to  assure  his  fame,  would  murder  and  rob  inoffen- 
sive fellow-citizens  to  buy  himself  opportunity.  .  .  . 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         215 

"The  study  of  evolution,  so  sedulously  practised  in 
Germany,  has  not  only  established  the  progress  of  life  on 
earth,  it  has  proved  how  far  back  in  the  past  our  human 
roots  are  planted.  Just  as  a  touch  of  nature  makes  the 
whole  world  kin,  so  a  touch  of  primaeval  savagery  suf- 
ficed to  make  the  whole  world  war." 

A  strange  New  Year  crept  upon  us. 

The  streets  were  darkened  and  silent;  there  had  been  a 
moon  the  night  before,  but  it  was  lost  beyond  masses  of 
cloud  which  had  deluged  us  with  rain  unceasingly  for  well- 
nigh  twenty-four  hours. 

During  some  little  while,  the  rain  seemed  to  slacken; 
silence  and  blackness  filled  all  life.  Church-clocks  began 
to  strike,  and  others  took  up  the  burden,  as  though  we  had 
been  at  any  hour  of  any  day  or  night.  There  were  not 
more  bells  than  usual;  rather  fewer,  for  the  rain  drowned 
those  afar.  Silence  fell  again,  and  lasted  a  score  of  seconds. 
Not  men  broke  it,  nor  works  of  men's  hands,  but  the 
heavens  themselves,  as  the  flood-gates  were  opened  afresh. 

On  the  eve  of  Christmas,  we  had  heard  feet  and  voices 
in  the  streets ;  bells  had  pealed  loud  and  triumphant,  while 
we  saw  lights  shine  out  beneath  us,  bright  stars  in  the 
gloom  of  an  earth-sky.  We  knew,  then,  though  we  did 
not  realise  so  fully  as  now  by  contrast,  that  those  bells 
had  signalled  a  consecration,  that  those  feet  and  voices 
had  marked  the  way  of  church-goers. 

No  peals,  no  prayers,  no  consecration  to  usher  in  the 
prophecy  of  New  Year:  and  yet,  perhaps  clearer  from  the 
absence  of  physical  testimony,  the  spirit  of  God  seemed 
very  near  for  any  who  would  heed. 

We  spoke  of  that  as  we  parted,  Paul  and  I — he  to  sleep, 
and  I  to  wake. 


216         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

I  did  not  dream :  for  what  I  saw  was  true. 

The  world  had  lived  on  through  the  years.  I  shall  not 
state  how  many;  nor  could  I  count  them  surely,  though 
I  knew. 

War  had  succeeded  war,  ambition  had  defeated  ambi- 
tion, jealousy  had  devoured  jealousy,  self-interest  had 
preyed  upon  self-interest;  while  material  gain,  material 
prestige,  material  supremacy,  were  sought  by  men  and 
groups  of  men. 

Whether  struggling  westward  or  sinking  east,  races  and 
nations  had  given  the  measure  of  their  morality  in  con- 
flicts which  meant  death  or  re-birth  for  all  engaged,  and 
weakening  or  hardening  for  all  that  abstained  because  of 
cowardice  or  of  egoism.  Men  groped  in  the  depths  of  an 
infinite  night;  and  the  wisest  could  but  say  that  the  right 
must  be  no  less  eternally  right  than  before,  the  wrong  no 
less  eternally  wrong,  though  physical  nature  had  fallen 
as  a  veil  between  them  and  the  first,  while  connecting  with 
the  second. 

Then  there  came  an  age  when  men  dared  seek  the  truth; 
and  there  came  an  age  when  men  dared  speak  the  truth;  and 
there  came  an  age  when  men  dared  face  the  truth :  and  a 
Prophet  appeared. 

He  spoke  from  his  heart  to  those  about  him;  he  used 
neither  artifice  nor  violence  to  bring  proselytes  beneath  his 
sway.  His  words  were  for  such  as  would  hear:  and  they 
were  old  as  worlds  that  are,  they  were  sure  as  worlds  to  be. 

He  taught  a  simple  message  of  love;  not  remote  love  for 
strangers  where  the  effort  cost  least,  but  love  for  those 
with  whom  one's  life  was  cast;  he  taught  that  hearts  should 
be  filled  with  love  for  all  the  children  of  God,  since  to  love 
them  was  to  love  Him,  and  hatred  or  scorn  for  the  least 
among  them  was  hatred  or  scorn  for  Him  in  their  persons. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         217 

He  taught  that  all  bitterness  must  pass  away  from  the 
mind,  that  the  stain  of  slander  must  be  blotted  from  the 
lips;  that  harsh  judgments,  though  easy  to  frame  and 
though  perchance  just,  were  ever  harmful  to  him  that 
uttered  them;  he  taught  that  the  words  should  not  be 
repressed,  but  the  thoughts  which  led  to  them  banished. 

He  taught  that  eternal  life  had  two  objects — knowledge 
and  love;  wherefore  the  lives  through  which  men  passed 
in  tentative  stages  towards  eternity  should  have  these 
objects;  but  knowledge  could  come  only  with  earnest 
desire,  which  was  an  expression  of  love,  so  the  objects 
towards  which  attention  was  turned  should  be  worthy  of 
love. 

He  taught  that  where  the  bases  of  a  work  were  solid 
and  its  message  was  true,  it  need  not  fear  harm  from  evil 
existing  near;  that  the  temples  of  Greece,  the  pillars  and 
arches  of  Rome,  cared  nothing  for  the  dust  men  shook  from 
their  feet  in  passing,  nor  did  those  who  looked  upon  them 
even  in  their  ruins  take  heed  for  that  dust,  if  capable  of 
seeing  more  than  dust.  He  taught  that  only  the  beautiful 
and  the  true  should  be  sought,  those  things  which  might 
be  loved,  and,  being  loved,  might  prompt  to  greater 
love;  that  hardness  should  not  be  crushed  from  the  heart, 
but  allowed  to  melt  away  in  the  warm  rays  of  the  love 
which  asked  but  to  become  the  guiding  factor  in  thought : 
that  hardness  was  only  love  grown  cold,  to  crush  was  to 
condense  it,  to  warm  was  to  retrieve  it. 

The  Prophet  bore  many  names,  for  he  was  many  men; 
nor  was  he  mocked  and  cursed  and  stoned,  for  evolution 
had  prepared  his  way  wherever  a  life  had  accepted  sim- 
plicity and  good-faith  as  its  law  and  had  taken  as  its  in- 
spiration love — the  love  of  God  in  His  majesty — the  love 
of  God  in  all  His  children — the  love  of  God  in  all  His  works. 


218         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Yea,  a  strange,  sad  New  Year;  but  not  a  hopeless  one. 
In  the  morning,  Paul  and  I  saw  the  sun  pierce  the  clouds 
for  two  brief  moments: — while,  rosy-pink  and  cream- 
yellow,  above  the  winter-stripped  gardens  and  tossing 
tree-branches,  the  palace  of  France's  traditional  glories 
smiled  transfigured  in  calm  beauty  against  granite-hued 
skies. 

In  each  life,  I  believe,  there  is  a  period  sacred  beyond 
others,  which  one  may  shrink  from  discussing  even  with 
those  concerned.  Such,  to  me,  was  the  time  Paul  and  I 
spent  in  Versailles.  The  sacredness  came  from  the  fact 
that  there  were  no  events  nor  incidents,  but  only  harmony 
and  understanding,  while  he  worked  in  many  ways  and  I 
helped  him  as  I  could.  We  were  nearing  the  end  of  our 
days  together;  we  were  reaching  phases  of  our  respective 
existences  to  be  given  to  other  tasks  than  any  we  had 
known. 

On  his  seventeenth  birthday,  he  entered  my  room.  His 
eyes,  whose  grey  had  been  light  all  this  while,  had  dark- 
ened :  I  knew  the  mood. 

Throwing  himself  on  the  floor  near  me,  one  arm  across 
my  knees,  his  face  turned  to  mine,  he  said  abruptly,  in- 
tensely : 

"I've  tried — I've  tried  hard,  really  hard — and  I  can't!" 
Tears  fell;  he  did  not  try  to  check  them.  "It's  not  my 
fault;  it's  fate,  it's  the  world,  it's  everything  under  all 
that  means  anything " 

"You  want  to  leave  me,  Paul?"  My  voice  came 
steadily. 

"I  can't  be  idle  any  longer — I  can't  wait  for  my  class  to 
be  called!  They  don't  want  anticipated  enlistments; 
but  with  the  special  training  I  owe  to  you — and  with  the 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         219 

detail  that  I  want  to  be  a  plain  infantryman,  the  man  most 
needed — and  with  your  help,  if  you  will  see  the  officers 
and  officials  you  know — I'm  sure  I  should  be  taken." 

Still  resting  as  he  had  been,  but  with  his  head  bowed  on 
his  hands,  he  continued: 

"I  told  you  I  had  ambitions — felt  a  call  for  work — in 
the  old  days,  at  Verviller.  But  if  I  don't  do  my  share  first 
to  punish  the  worst  crimes,  to  stop  the  greatest  evils  im- 
aginable, do  you  think  I  should  be  worthy?  I  can't  let 
others  do  the  harsh  and  terrible  work  to  clear  the  way  so 
that  I  may  do  as  I  please  later!" 

All  the  influence  I  had  was  needed  for  the  fulfilment  of 
his  wish. 

From  Paris,  he  went  off  to  join  a  regiment  of  the  line  at 
a  base  in  central  France  where  it  was  re-forming;  and  I 
returned  to  the  ruins  of  Verviller,  where  others  were  al- 
ready toiling  to  create  new  life  from  bare  ashes. 

Few  moments  of  leisure  occur  in  such  an  existence  as 
mine  is  now.  Nevertheless,  I  have  been  recording  my 
evidence  of  him  whom  I  alone  knew  fully  while  nature, 
and  fate,  and  men,  and  he  himself  were  fashioning  the 
boy  to  make  him  what  he  is;  for  I  wish  his  story  to  greet 
him  when  he  returns  to  what  is  left  of  these  walls,  though 
I  may  have  passed  in  the  road  that  knows  no  turning.  Or 
am  I  pleading  excuses  for  a  self -sought  task?  Perhaps  I 
merely  would  write  of  him,  now  we  cannot  talk  together. 
As  I  write,  there  are  times  when  he  seems  to  be  listening; 
I  see  him  look  up  with  his  wondering  smile. 

VII 

WHEN  Paul  and  I  met  again  in  Verviller,  I  was  more 
bent  than  had  been  my  wont,  and  glad  for  that  moment 


220         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

only;  he  stood  tall,  erect,  radiant  with  a  serenity  which  no 
sentiment  seemed  to  break. 

Vistas  of  ruined  streets  stretched  in  all  directions.  Be- 
hind us,  the  river  with  its  shattered  bridge  and  battle- 
scarred  banks;  before  us,  the  scaled,  crumbling  tower  of 
the  church,  and  the  broken  but  still  chimney-crowned 
walls  of  the  chateau;  to  right,  to  left,  only  nameless, 
figureless,  indescribable  desolation.  Some  who  have 
viewed  these  ruins  as  one  of  the  curiosities  of  the  war  have 
written  very  picturesque  accounts,  I  am  told.  To  one 
who  lived  there,  pen-pictures  are  vain. 

"Was  this  our  house? — Yes,  that  is  your  window,"  said 
Paul. 

His  clear  eyes  had  not  darkened,  his  firm  cheeks  had  lost 
nothing  of  their  flush.  Perhaps  his  shoulders  had  squared 
themselves  rather  more  resolutely  under  the  uniform  coat 
of  light  grey.  I  am  sure  the  visor  of  his  cap  rose,  and  not 
merely  because  he  glanced  up. 

"Let's  go  in,"  he  said. 

No  hand  had  touched  it,  apparently,  though  many  feet 
had  passed  there;  it  was  as  when  the  cooling  fires  of  ex- 
hausted flames  had  left  it  to  time  and  weather.  Stone 
and  mortar  and  twisted  metal  strewed  the  earth,  in  mounds 
where  much  had  been  consumed;  the  springs  of  my  bed  and 
of  Paul's  lay  thin  and  discoloured  in  a  shadowy  semblance 
of  shape,  as  though  waiting  for  our  ghosts  to  rest  on  them. 
Of  whatever  else  had  been  mine,  nothing  was  recog- 
nisable. Alone  the  outer  walls  hemmed  us  in,  honey- 
combed with  gaping,  ungarnished  doors  and  windows — 
a  shell  of  vanity,  recalling  the  semblance  of  a  life,  within 
which  reigned  death  and  corruption.  At  the  back,  metal 
window-shades  of  Venetian  pattern  hung  down  to  the  sills, 
creaking  in  the  breeze,  shamming  usefulness.  Whenever 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         221 

they  swayed,  we  caught  fleeting  glimpses  of  scorched  trees 
and  rank  weeds  where  once  I  had  taken  pleasure  in  my 
small  garden. 

"  Strange,  how  natural  those  shades  seem,  if  one  doesn't 
watch  closely,"  Paul  said.  "And  even  if  one  does,  one 
can't  mind;  it's  too  unreal.  This  isn't  our  house:  ours  is 
what  we  remember. — But  what's  that?" 

Drawing  near  to  one  of  the  windows — where  the  kitchen 
had  been — he  exclaimed: 

"The  old,  rusty,  broken  scissors  Leonie  put  up  there  to 
keep  me  from  coming  back!  You  remember?" 

True;  there  they  were.  And  I  shuddered — not  super- 
stitiously,  but  at  the  thought  of  the  sadness  that  first  part- 
ing had  caused  me. 

His  mood,  excluding  sentiment,  concerned  me,  depressed 
and  alarmed  me,  made  me  feel  deeply  alone  though  he 
was  near.  Since  the  moment  we  had  met  again,  I  had 
noted  a  difference  without  being  able  to  gauge  its  span. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  more?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  since  I  am  here,"  he  answered. 

Following  him,  I  even  wondered  if  the  events  he  had 
witnessed  could,  by  some  strange  process  of  mind,  have 
been  wiped  from  his  memory.  His  gait  and  bearing 
would  soon  have  reminded  me  he  was  a  soldier,  if  I  had 
been  disposed  to  forget;  but  I  could  not  have  forgotten, 
such  was  the  spirit  inspiring  his  look,  his  voice,  his  move- 
ments. All  that,  I  understood.  But  his  serenity  bewil- 
dered me  and  left  no  grounds  for  reckoning,  though  once 
I  had  held  every  secret  of  Paul's  heart  and  had  sounded 
deep  into  his  soul. 

With  cool  interest  he  noted  odd  traces  of  bullets  and 
bayonet-thrusts  which,  in  the  near-by  walls,  had  survived 
the  conflagration. 


222         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"That's  the  street  fighting  I  told  you  about,"  he  said 
calmly.  "If  anything  is  left  of  father's  house,  I  can  ex- 
plain the  whole  action  as  it  developed  there." 

I  noticed  that  he  spoke  of  "father's  house,"  but  had 
called  mine  "ours." 

"That's  shell-fire,"  he  said  presently,  before  the  heaped 
vestiges  of  two  buildings.  "I  saw  them  both  go.  Five 
shells  in  succession  fell  on  or  near  them.  Good  shooting; 
two-hundred-and-tens,  I  believe.  Yes,  here's  a  small 
piece  of  one.  What's  left  of  the  houses  isn't  worth  talking 
about.  Those  over  there — most  of  the  street,  indeed — got 
a  dose  of  smaller  shells,  but  quite  big  enough  to  do  the 
business.  Less  damage,  and  extraordinary  symmetry." 

There  was,  indeed,  that  difference  he  mentioned,  be- 
tween the  large  shells  which  nothing  resisted,  and  the 
smaller  which  stone  and  brick  might  partly  survive. 
There  was  either  fair  resistance  or  complete  crumbling  on 
the  part  of  masonry — no  half -measures.  Here,  in  the 
street  he  pointed  out,  fire  had  been  added  to  the  havoc 
of  shells,  but  upright  walls  stood  with  emptied  windows 
against  the  sky.  Metal,  however,  seemed  to  cry  out  in- 
dignant protests,  to  make  a  last  appeal  against  the  violence 
of  brother-metal  though  alien  stone  might  accept  its  fate. 
How  else  explain  the  bars,  the  girders,  stretched  out  or  up 
from  sundry  piles  of  ruin,  like  arms  that  had  risen  with  a 
curse  but  were  frozen  in  death  when  the  lips  that  cried  out 
had  been  stilled? 

I  expressed  this  to  Paul. 

"Very  nice,"  he  said.  "Only  it  was  the  fire  did  it — 
common  incendiarism,  you  know." 

"They  smashed  the  church,  when  it  ceased  to  serve 
them,"  he  commented  presently,  glancing  in  through  a 
window  whose  ancient  glass  had  been  one  of  the  prides  of 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         223 

Verviller.  "Just  pounded  to  pieces  from  sheer  wicked- 
ness, and  burned  by  hand  afterwards.  Look  at  those 
traces  of  smoke,  there,  quite  low  down  in  the  corner,  on 
the  stone." 

Before  the  Chdteau  de  Vervillers,  he  said: 

"The  looting  here  was  frightful,  I  remember  hearing 
people  say — not  a  thing  but  they  took,  whether  it  looked 
valuable  or  not.  And  all  the  same,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
they  left  those  famous  bronzes.  If  we  were  to  go  and 
rummage,  any  odd  piece  of  fused  metal  we  found  might  be 
— Or  no!  Already  at  that  time  they  were  systematically 
collecting  brass  and  bronze  for  munitions.  Stole  the  very 
buttons  from  the  uniforms  of  their  own  dead.  By  the 
way,  might  we  go  to  the  Ripote?  Got  all  the  rest  of  the 
day,  and  I  fancy  there's  not  much  to  be  done  in  Verviller. 
Would  you  feel  strong  enough?  This  afternoon,  perhaps; 
for  you  know  there  are  a  few  people  I  should  like  to  see." 

"They  are  lunching  with  us,"  I  said.  "Many  of  us  eat 
in  common,  at  present;  not  a  large  population,  but  on 
very  cordial  terms.  Our  mess-room  is  at  the  old  convent; 
the  Marquis  de  Vervillers  came  there  as  simply  as  you  or 
I,  last  time  he  passed  through  town.  He  had  got  his  com- 
mand, but  feared  it  might  be  taken  away  from  him,  be- 
cause of  his  age,  as  soon  as  any  were  ready  for  promotion." 

"Probably  will  be,"  Paul  observed  philosophically. 
"This  is  a  war  for  the  young." 

"If  we  take  that  street,  our  way  will  be  much  longer," 
I  admonished,  surprised  at  his  forgetfulness.  "Straight 
ahead,  if  you  wish  to  go  to  the  convent." 

"Yes;  but  I  would  rather  turn  here,"  he  said,  hi  an 
altered  tone. 

Then  I  remembered  that  the  Place  de  la  Mairie  lay  a 
short  distance  ahead  in  the  straight  line. 


224         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Paul  continued,  almost  apologetically: 

"No  use  for  me  to  see  it  again.     I  know  how  it  looks." 

After  a  few  steps,  however,  he  stopped  and  whirled 
abruptly: 

"Im'Mgo." 

So  rapid  was  his  stride  that  I  followed  quite  a  distance 
behind.  I  saw  him  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  square,  with 
face  slightly  paled  and  lips  tightly  pressed;  he  was  gazing 
deliberately  at  each  house  in  succession,  and  stopped  at  a 
wall  seamed  and  scarred  by  machine-gun  fire. 

The  minutes  required  for  me  to  reach  him  sufficed  for 
his  task  of  self-discipline. 

"Dear  boy,  forgive  me — I  wronged  you,"  I  said,  taking 
his  arm  as  we  walked  away.  It  was  best  said  plainly. 
For  I  knew  he  read  my  moods. 

"No,  you  didn't  wrong  me,"  he  answered.  "You  just 
hadn't  learned  the  difference  between  the  old  me  who  could 
only  talk,  and  the  new  me  who's  ready  to  act." 

Something  suggested  the  old  boyish  movement  of  his 
head,  though  his  erect  form  and  firm  muscles  expressed 
no  diffidence  as  he  went  on: 

"My  trip  here  was  hard  to  manage,  with  only  a  two- 
days'  leave,  and  the  town  so  near  the  fighting  line.  At 
one  moment  it  seemed  as  if  I  couldn't  possibly  be  author- 
ised to  come;  as  if  I  should  have  to  ask  you  to  meet  me  in 
Paris,  or  else  down  at  my  dep6t.  I  was  relieved,  almost 
glad.  As  soon  as  I  felt  that,  I  knew  I  was  still  weak,  and 
I  went  to  work  and  begged  so  hard,  that  my  officers 
smoothed  out  the  difficulties.  Now  do  you  understand 
what  I  feel  here — what. I  felt  in  our  house,  and  in  the  Place 
de  la  Mairie?  But  I  say  to  myself,  'Here's  at  least  one 
life  to  be  given  to  help  punish  them'. " 

Verviller  had  suffered  most  in  the  centre  and  towards 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         225 

the  river;  as  we  approached  the  suburb  on  the  other  side, 
signs  of  life  were  noticeable.  Repairs  had  not  yet  been 
seriously  attempted;  most  survivors  were  penniless,  hav- 
ing been  in  local  business  or  retail  trade,  or  owners  of 
farms  in  the  region;  those  who  still  had  money  needed  it 
for  more  immediate  ends  than  house-building.  One  or 
two  rooms  of  certain  homes  had  escaped,  and  elsewhere  a 
rough  covering  would  make  a  ruin  habitable;  the  fortunate 
dwellers  in  such  quarters  would  share  them  with  destitute 
neighbours.  Occasionally  we  would  pass  a  gaunt  old 
woman,  classical  figure  of  woe,  seated  in  dingy  mourning 
upon  what  had  been  her  door-step;  but  oftener  we  saw 
children  playing  at  hide-and-seek  among  ruins  which  to 
them  were  already  historic.  In  one  house,  a  thrifty  wife 
profited  by  the  missing  wall  to  dry  freshly  washed  clothes 
within  doors  (which  is  a  figure  of  speech) ;  and  at  several 
of  the  most  desolate  points  we  crossed  boys  with  hands 
in  their  pockets  and  caps  on  the  back  of  their  heads,  whist- 
ling as  they  went.  Shop-keepers  who  had  lost  everything 
were  in  any  shelter  they  could  find,  with  improvised  stalls, 
and  a  humble  assortment  of  wares  spread  out  for  cus- 
tomers who  could  scarcely  afford  what  might  be  most 
strictly  necessary. 

Paul  plunged  into  one  of  these  establishments  and 
bought  some  soldier-tobacco  with  which  he  filled  his  pipe, 
and  for  me  a  terrific  fifteen-centime  cigar — the  best  to  be 
had — which  he  compelled  me  to  light  on  the  spot,  for  the 
good  woman's  gratification.  It  made  me  rather  ill,  as 
cheap  green  cigars  always  do,  particularly  before  lunch; 
and  Paul  cheered  me  by  recalling  the  awful  confession  he 
had  made  about  smoking  cigarettes  at  Delligny's  bicycle 
shop,  and  his  surprise  to  learn  I  had  been  witness  to  the 
act. 


226         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Of  all  the  buildings  in  town,  the  convent  alone  had 
been  spared.  The  German  commander  had  learned  that 
his  wounded,  as  well  as  ours,  were  there;  they  had  been 
transferred  once  more  when  it  had  become  evident  that 
Verviller  could  not  be  held.  He  had  given  instructions 
that  the  hospital  should  not  be  especially  burned,  when 
orders  where  issued  for  the  town  generally;  but  he  had  not 
guaranteed  immunity.  The  walls  had  somehow  resisted 
environing  tongues  of  flame — or  else  the  wind  had  turned — 
or  else,  as  some  claimed,  a  miracle  had  intervened. 

Old  Leonie  opened  the  door  for  us,  seeming  nearly  a 
hundred  now,  and  rarely  without  tears  in  her  eyes,  charity 
in  her  hands,  and  imprecations  in  her  mouth  at  the  men- 
tion of  Germans.  Her  adventures,  she  had  never  told. 
After  endless  researches  and  inquiries  through  official 
sources,  by  means  of  relief  bureaux  and  with  letters  and 
telegrams  mostly  returned  to  me,  I  had  sought  her  in 
every  corner  of  France,  only  to  locate  her  at  last  in  the 
town  itself.  The  abominations  of  that  night,  she  said, 
had  been  such  that  nothing  else  could  matter;  and,  not 
knowing  where  to  find  me,  she  had  waited  for  me  to  come. 
Since  we  had  organised  relief-work  at  the  convent,  she 
spent  most  of  her  time  there,  helping  with  the  children, 
directing  the  distributions  of  soup  and  meat  and  bread, 
and  serving  at  the  meals. 

She  had  not  believed  my  tales  of  Paul's  rescue,  because 
she  had  for  so  long  wept  over  his  death.  At  sight  of  him, 
she  fell  on  his  neck,  with  disconcerting  results.  To  save 
the  situation,  he  twitted  her  about  those  rusty  scissors 
with  a  broken  point  attached  to  the  blind  of  what  had 
been  her  kitchen.  She  vowed  her  Alsatian  gods  that 
they  were  new  old  scissors  put  there  to  prevent  a  German 
return. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         227 

"Ach!"  she  cried,  "if  I  could  see  that^uniform  on 
Alsatian  soil — if  my  eyes  could  see  that,  before  tears  blind 
them!" 

"Just  as  soon  as  I  rejoin  my  regiment,"  quoth  Paul,  "I 
shall  have  the  post  of  vivandiere  revived,  and  then  you  may 
come  with  us!" 

We  entered  the  refectory.  A  trim  little  nun,  with 
pale,  drawn  face,  came  up : 

"How  are  you,  Paul?" 

After  one  look,  he  changed  colour  and  turned  away. 
Regaining  self-mastery,  he  grasped  her  hand: 

' '  Very  well,  Mademoiselle  Odette.     And  you  ? ' ' 

"Soeur  Angele,  please,"  she  said.  "Are  you  very 
hungry?  We  shall  soon  be  ready  for  you.  I  know  what 
soldiers'  appetites  are.  What  do  you  think  of  our 
establishment?"  Not  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  flitted 
away. 

Paul  glanced  in  her  wake,  tragically  silent.  Slowly  the 
red  came  to  his  cheeks. 

"Sceur  Angele."  He  rested  his  hand  on  the  window- 
ledge,  and  leaned  there,  facing  the  street.  "Yes.  I  saw 
Mademoiselle  Odette  die." 

And  as  I  remember,  now,  that  many  pages  back  I  wrote 

of  Mademoiselle  Odette,  "I  never  saw  her "  I  let  the 

words  stand. 

Among  those  who  gradually  joined  us  at  the  long  table, 
in  the  bare  but  scrupulously  clean  hall,  there  were  few 
Paul  had  ever  spoken  to,  though  he  recognised  many  faces. 
At  the  sound  of  one  voice,  shouting  from  the  entrance, 
he  started;  and  when  a  monotonous  thumping  step  fol- 
lowed, I  thought  him  about  to  fail  once  more.  The  peal 
of  laughter  which  accompanied  the  thumps  helped  him  to 
recover.  Marcel  Lavenu  paused  near  the  door  of  the 


228         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

refectory,  balanced  on  his  left  foot,  the  other  leg  being 
off  above  the  knee,  and  cried  out  cheerily: 

"  Took  only  four  jumps,  this  time !  But  who'll  help  me 
across  the  ice?  If  So3ur  Angele  and  Leonie  will  polish  the 
floor " 

Paul  sprang  towards  him: 

"  Marcel !    My  old  Marcel ! " 

"Why,  it's  the  little  young  man !"  said  Marcel.  "Lucky 
you  didn't  run  away  with  me,  my  boy,  because  you'd  have 
been  ignominiously  sent  home.  This  way  you  can  soon 
take  my  place  in  the  lines.  Meanwhile  you're  filling 
Ernest's  place,  though  not  brilliantly.  He  helps  me  a  lot; 
got  two  sound  legs,  you  see,  those  swine  left  him  that  much, 
though  they  lopped  off  his  right  hand.  We've  gone  into 
partnership,  because  it  makes  three  legs  and  three  hands 
between  us — enough  for  any  man  and  a  half,  which  is 
quite  right  because  he's  barely  half -sized!" 

"But — can't  you  have  a  crutch?"  Paul  asked. 

"Crutch!"  echoed  Marcel  scornfully.  "You  don't 
fancy  I  want  to  be  taken  for  a  cripple?  " 

He  reached  the  table,  hopping  easily  and  keeping  his 
balance  so  well  that  he  barely  touched  the  arm  held  out  to 
him. 

"Aren't  they  going  to  give  you  a  wooden  leg?"  Paul 
insisted. 

"Going  to?  Why,  they  gave  me  one  long  ago,  stupid!" 
exclaimed  Marcel,  with  eyes  no  less  sparkling  and  cheeks 
no  less  red  than  of  yore.  "  You  don't  mean  to  accuse  our 
people  of  neglecting  their  soldiers,  I  suppose?  I'd  say 
you  were  a  disgrace  to  that  uniform,  if  it  weren't  so  new 
and  clean  that  anybody  could  know  it  hasn't  seen  service. 
Here's  what  happened.  Nothing's  left  of  father's  busi- 
ness; and  Robert  was  killed  holding  the  frontier — as  he'd 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         229 

sworn  to  do.  Rather  fine,  wasn't  it?  You  remember  how 
he  used  to  talk." 

A  plate  fell,  and  broke;  Sceur  Angele  called  out: 
"Leonie!"  But  it  had  fallen  at  her  own  feet,  and  she  hid 
her  face  beneath  the  big  white  coif  as  she  stooped  hurriedly. 

"So  I  said  to  myself,"  Marcel  went  on,  '"What  can 
you  do  in  Verviller  with  your  one  leg?'  For  back  here  I 
was  bound  to  come.  The  papers  printed  articles  about 
the  agricultural  situation,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  be  a 
farmer.  Knew  a  little  about  it,  always  picked  up  odds 
and  ends  of  information  about  anything.  And  there  are 
a  few  old  people  left  in  the  neighbourhood  who  can  tell 
you  what  was  done  a  hundred  years  ago  when  they  and 
their  grandfathers  were  boys  together.  Everybody 
screamed  at  me,  of  course,  and  said  a  one-legged  man 
couldn't  plough.  But  I  said  'fiddlesticks,'  and  had  my 
wooden  leg  fitted  with  a  special  nail  on  the  end  which 
lets  me  do  what  I  please  out  of  doors.  Trouble  is,  it  rips 
wood  all  to  pieces,  so  I  don't  wear  it  at  Soeur  Angele's 
tavern  or  at  Pere  Aubret's  hotel." 

"You  might  have  a  boot  fitted  on  it,"  Paul  suggested. 

"I  did;  but  the  boot  fitted  still  better  into  a  mud-hole, 
and  I  left  all  the  leg  with  it ! "  Marcel  laughed.  "  Oh,  there 
are  lots  of  new  things  I  can  invent  when  I  want  to;  but 
there's  no  hurry  because  I'm  learning  to  manage.  Soon 
sha'n't  need  Ernest,  or  you  either,  you  sort  of  a  grass- 
soldier.  Speaking  of  him,  you  ought  to  see  that  boy  hold 
the  reins  and  a  plough-handle,  with  one  hand  and  the 
stump  of  a  fore-arm.  Wonderful — if  I  do  say  it,  who 
taught  him!  Ah!  here  he  is.  Come  here,  my  right  leg, 
your  right  hand's  waiting  for  you." 

Ernest  came  up,  and  greeted  Paul  very  solemnly. 

"Don't  look  apologetic  about  giving  your  left  hand  to 


230         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

shake — I  step  out  with  my  left  leg!"  Marcel  continued, 
making  room  beside  him  and  beginning  to  cut  the  meat 
in  a  plate  Leonie  brought.  "He  can  cut  almost  anything, 
already;  even  managed  to  cut  his  own  finger,  the  other  day. 
Didn't  you?  Speak  up,  young  man !  He's  out  of  breath, 
though  he  has  two  sound  legs  and  our  farm  is  just  beyond 
the  town.  No  trouble  in  getting  land  at  present;  and  we 
can  live  at  Pere  Aubret's  hotel,  and  eat  here,  and  go  to  our 
work  quite  easily.  Or  I  can.  Ernest  is  impeded  by  a 
superfluous  leg,  I  believe." 

The  boy,  wizened  and  sickly,  began  to  smile;  Marcel's 
treatment  for  melancholia  was  evidently  a  success. 

"My  legs  are  all  right,  and — and  my  hand  too,"  he  said, 
and  fell  to  eating  heartily. 

"You  can't  imagine  the  trouble  he  gave  me  at  first," 
Marcel  whispered  to  Paul.  "Depressed — Lord!  Made 
me  want  to  howl  like  a  dog  when  the  neighbour's  cat  is 
dying  out  of  -*»ach  of  his  teeth!  But  the  lad's  improving; 
doesn't  give  me  any  trouble  worth  the  mention." 

When  Paul  questioned,  but  not  before,  Marcel  told  of 
his  adventures. 

Hidden  under  a  seat  in  the  train,  he  had  reached  a  town 
near  the  frontier  and  had  followed  the  regiment,  with  some 
of  whose  men  he  made  friends  in  transit.  Their  first 
engagement  started  at  a  point  where  the  Germans  had  been 
occupying  French  soil  for  several  days  before  declaring  war; 
while  the  French  had  been  drawn  back  five  miles  so  as 
not  to  fall  into  the  German  trap  and  be  accused  of  attack- 
ing first,  even  in  defence  of  their  own  invaded  territory. 
Marcel  hid  in  the  bushes;  and,  soldiers  being  killed  near 
him,  he  got  a  cap,  a  belt,  a  coat,  a  rifle  and  cartridges, 
and  fought  with  the  men.  In  Verviller,  he  had  belonged 
to  a  society  for  military  preparation,  so  he  could  shoot. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          231 

They  began  their  advance  in  Alsace.  Marcel  described 
it  as  a  "triumphal  rush";  they  absolutely  ran  down  the 
slopes  of  the  Vosges,  the  officers  running  at  their  head 
like  schoolboys.  "It  was  very  beautiful!"  Then  they 
had  to  draw  back,  but  with  orders  to  die  rather  than 
yield  up  Nancy,  which  the  Germans  would  take  only  by 
fighting,  not  by  bombardment,  because  of  the  flour  stored 
there.  Thousands  of  men  might  die  on  either  side,  but  the 
Germans  were  bound  to  get  that  flour,  and  the  French  to 
keep  it.  They  were  short  of  food,  they  had  no  water; 
they  chewed  the  leather  of  their  belts  to  moisten  tongue 
and  lips,  they  held  pebbles  in  the  mouth  for  coolness.  The 
Lorraine  troops,  faithful  to  Joffre's  order  to  stand  at  any 
price,  saved  Nancy,  and  stopped  a  German  advance.  Still 
fighting,  still  short  of  food,  they  were  sent  north.  They 
had  their  reward.  About  the  middle  of  October,  they 
reached  a  town  which  had  not  been  laid  waste,  and  where 
warm  food  was  to  be  had — their  first  warm  food  since  the 
beginning  of  the  campaign,  two  months  and  a  half  before. 

"I'd  been  hit  several  times,  or  grazed,  rather,"  said 
Marcel.  "My  knapsack  shot  off  my  back,  to  begin  with. 
Full  of  souvenirs.  We  thought  of  such  things  to  bring 
home,  then,  because  we  believed  the  war  would  be  short. 
I  had  eagles  from  German  helmets,  and  all  sorts  of  stuff; 
a  pistol,  too.  Gone  with  the  knapsack!  Next  time  I 
was  hit,  I'd  been  bayonetting  so  hard  that  I  stopped  to 
thrust  my  cap  back,  and  cool  off  and  rest  a  minute.  A 
Boche  not  far  away  took  aim  and  fired.  Bad  shot,  only 
cut  my  visor  clean  off.  I  was  so  mad,  I  shouldered  quick 
as  a  wink — and  that  German  didn't  go  home  on  con- 
valescent leave!  Then  all  went  right  till  we  got  north. 
Next  time,  it  was  the  real  thing.  Knee  smashed  into  bits 
no  bigger  than  your  nail.  Fact.  I  lay  on  the  field  all 


232         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

day;  then  they  took  me  to  an  improvised  hospital,  and 
laid  me  out  on  a  shutter  in  the  hall,  because  there  were  no 
tables.  Great  luck  they  had  chloroform  to  operate." 

The  meal  ended,  Marcel  stumped  merrily  away.  Paul 
followed  him  with  his  eyes,  and  said  slowly  to  me : 

"You  always  believed  we  would  win,  didn't  you?  Well, 
don't  you  know  it  now?" 

Near  the  convent  I  had  found  a  fair-sized  house  only 
partially  destroyed,  which  I  had  been  able  to  repair 
summarily.  This  was  what  Marcel  Lavenu  irreverently 
called  "Pere  Aubret's  hotel."  He  and  Ernest  shared  a 
room  there;  the  other  rooms  were  used  by  any  who  needed 
them,  save  for  a  large  one  I  had  reserved  as  my  residence 
and  reception-hall.  Rather  palatial,  all  things  considered, 
with  a  bed  and  three  chairs  and  a  table;  yet  not  wanton 
luxury,  since  the  business  of  relief  work  had  to  be  trans- 
acted somewhere. 

Our  way  to  the  Ripote,  that  afternoon,  lay  along  a 
seamed  and  shattered  road,  picketed  with  tree-stumps. 
We  crossed  the  gullies  in  which  men  had  crouched  to  live 
and  fight  one  moment  longer;  we  passed  through  a  grove  of 
branch-stripped,  bullet-riddled  trees,  as  we  walked  care- 
fully to  avoid  graves  or  relics  of  the  dead — here,  a  coat; 
there,  a  cartridge-pouch;  beyond,  a  rusted  canteen;  and, 
under  my  very  feet,  the  hasty  dressing  that  a  soldier  had 
pressed  upon  a  first  wound  before  fighting  again  and 
falling  again,  doubtless  to  stay,  for  there  had  been  no 
quarter  given  and  no  retreat  to  seek.  These  vestiges, 
and  those  many  graves,  mound-like  or  trench-like,  were 
all  that  testified  to  fifteen  thousand  men  who  had  fallen 
at  the  defence  of  Verviller  and  of  its  road  to  Paris. 

Our  progress  had  been  slow;  the  sun  was  near  the  setting 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         233 

when  we  reached  the  edge  of  the  crest,  and  looked  down 
upon  the  poor,  torn  skeleton  of  the  butterfly. 

Paul  spoke  from  the  gloom  closing  in  on  us. 

"Do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  talk  of  travelling? 
I  wanted  to  see  the  Forum  and  the  Parthenon.  I  don't 
want  to,  any  more.  They  wouldn't  seem  picturesque  or 
beautiful.  I  know  what  ruins  mean." 


PART   FOUR 
LIFE 


"THE  most  inconceivable  thing  has  happened,"  Paul 
wrote  from  a  mysterious  point  in  the  army  zone,  indicated 
by  a  postal  number  and  two  groups  of  initials.  "I've 
been  sent  up  here  ahead  of  my  time,  which  might  have 
been  a  compliment — except  that  I'm  not  hi  a  fighting 
unit! 

"I  didn't  want  to  worry  you  before,  and  it  didn't  seem 
worth  mentioning;  but  I  had  trouble  when  marching  with 
my  kit.  Overtrained  at  military  preparation,  before  en- 
listing. The  best  results  of  all-round  health,  strength, 
and  development,  have  been  found  among  farmers  and 
working-boys,  it  seems,  rather  than  among  athletes  or 
sportsmen  or  the  specially  trained  in  schools  like  mine. 
As  an  apprentice,  I  should  have  stood  a  better  chance. 
During  any  long  march  with  the  regulation  weight  on  my 
back,  my  breathing  goes  wrong.  I  wouldn't  believe  it 
worth  bothering  about;  thought  I  should  outgrow  it,  you 
know.  Quite  unexpectedly,  I  was  detached  from  my 
corps  and  ordered  forward  with  one  of  the  supply  columns, 
as  a  commis  ouvrier  d' administration.  No  more  than  a 
plain  clerk,  in  uniform.  If  I'd  had  any  warning,  I  might 
have  tried  to  get  into  the  artillery,  where  this  sort  of  thing 
wouldn't  matter.  But  the  infantry  seemed  best;  the 
artillery  must  prepare  and  support  the  attack,  yet  it's 
the  soldier  who  does  the  actual  fighting;  and  as  trench-life 
is  the  hardest  and  dirtiest  of  all,  I  felt  that  was  what  I 
must  do.  If  I'd  only  known,  if  I'd  only  guessed! 

237 


238         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Uncle!  I  promise  you  my  heart's  as  sound  as  it  can 
possibly  be.  Nothing  worries  me  save  long  marches  with 
a  load;  and  since  we  don't  get  these  on  the  firing  line,  I 
don't  see  why  I  should  be  disgraced.  Can't  you  help  me? 
You  know  so  many  people.  There's  the  Marquis  de 
Vervillers.  Couldn't  he  do  something?  The  Count 
might,  anyhow. 

"Think  of  all  the  rifle-practice  and  bayonet-drill  I've 
had;  and  the  theory  of  warfare  I  studied,  so  as  to  pull 
through  with  the  men  if  our  officers  got  killed.  I  mustn't 
lose  all  that,  must  I?  What  rubbish  I'm  writing.  That 
isn't  what  matters.  You  understand.  If  I  can't  take 
my  place,  in  the  mud  and  under  fire,  with  the  genuine  men, 
to  be  as  great  as  the  least  among  them  in  his  humble,  useful 
way, — then  nothing  will  ever  seem  worth  while  to  me 
again;  because  all  I've  worked,  and  waited,  and  hoped, 
and  lived  for,  will  be  reduced  to  nothing." 

Must  I  confess  that  my  heart  leaped  joyfully  at  the 
beginning  which  told  me  the  boy  was  in  no  danger?  Yet 
as  I  read  on,  I  felt  he  was  right.  Not  knowing  where  to 
find  either  the  Marquis  or  the  Count,  I  wrote  to  the  Mar- 
quise at  the  auxiliary  ambulance  she  had  established  in 
Paris;  to  which,  by  the  way,  she  had  called  Soeur  Angele. 

While  I  waited  for  her  reply,  I  again  heard  from  Paul. 
He  had  deceitfully  made  friends  with  an  army  surgeon, 
stating  only  as  much  of  his  case  as  might  further  his  in- 
terests; and  so  had  secured  a  magnificent  certificate  of 
health.  By  good  luck,  it  was  a  surgeon  of  reputation, 
and  wearing  in  the  army  the  four  stripes  of  a  major.  This 
I  forwarded  to  Madame  de  Vervillers.  A  few  days  later 
came  her  answer.  She  had  written,  she  told  me,  to  her  son, 
as  being  better  placed  to  help  the  boy  than  the  Marquis, 
and  had  said,  "Your  father  would  certainly  feel  as  I  do, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         239 

that  we  should  render  young  Clermont  any  service  in  our 
power."  Bless  the  Marquise!  I  had  thought  her  cold 
and  rather  haughty,  under  the  perfect  politeness  of  the 
grande  dame.  Perhaps  I  had  misjudged  her;  or  else  the 
war  had  transformed  her,  like  countless  others  throughout 
France. 

Having  done  what  he  could,  and  biding  developments 
as  he  must,  Paul  found  time  to  give  me  an  idea  of  his  new, 
though — as  he  hoped — temporary  existence.  He  wrote: 

"To  think  I  used  to  believe  I  should  never  live  in  a 
chateau!  Well,  here  we  are,  a  whole  bunch  of  us,  in- 
habiting a  fine  chateau  with  an  extensive  park  surround- 
ing it.  Only,  as  our  boots  are  armed  with  nails  and 
covered  with  mud,  we  might  damage  the  carpets  and 
furniture  if  allowed  within  those  stately  walls.  So,  if  you 
would  know  the  homely  truth,  we  occupy  the  former 
stables  of  Count  I-Don't-Know-Who. 

"But  we  are  comfortable.  Shamefully  comfortable, 
for  soldiers  in  war-time.  Fancy,  we  boast  such  luxuries 
as  pots  to  cook  in  and  plates  to  eat  from !  And  we  have  a 
foot-tub  for  purposes  of  washing!  And  a  canvas  bucket 
(with  a  hole  in  one  side)  which  reaches  here  quite  one- 
third  full,  after  a  trip  to  the  well !  We  even  have  a  candel- 
abrum; hangs  from  a  nail  in  the  wall,  and  if  I  hadn't  a 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  pertaining  to  a  chateau,  I 
might  vulgarly  call  it  a  lantern.  We're  ever  so  warm 
and  comfortable;  old  chairs  and  broken  shutters  to  burn! 
As  for  our  beds,  I  must  say  they  are  not  so  soft  as  the 
ground  I  slept  on  a  little  while  ago,  but  they  boast  straw 
mattresses  in  which  only  straw  is  lacking. 

"So  much  for  comforts  shared  in  common.  At  the 
present  moment,  I  am  monopolising  a  fine  table,  made  of 
boards  stretched  on  a  saddler's  tressel,  and  the  use  of  a 


240         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

pen-holder  which  I  manufactured  out  of  the  top  of  a 
sardine-tin. 

"Regarding  my  health,  splendid,  never  better.  Lots 
and  lots  of  fresh  air;  at  night,  because  our  chateau  is  full 
of  holes;  by  day,  as  we  rattle  about  the  country  on  a 
motor-lorry.  Excuse  me,  I  should  have  said  automobile. 
I  sometimes  forget  to  live  up  to  the  dignity  of  my  new 
residence. 

"Until  now,  our  column  has  been  used  only  to  supply 
regiments  quartered  near  here  for  a  day  or  two.  They 
say,  however,  that  we  may  soon  be  trusted  as  far  as  a 
trench.  I  don't  dare  believe  in  such  good  luck.  The  next 
best  thing  to  being  able  to  shoot  is  to  know  you  are  running 
the  same  risks  as  others  by  being  shot  at.  If  it  could  be 
true! 

"You  will  let  me  know  the  very  minute  you  hear  from 
the  Marquis  or  the  Count?  Even  though  the  news  is 
bad,  because  then  I  must  go  to  work  and  find  some  other 
scheme.  Have  you  tried  writing  to  your  friends  in  Paris? 
Perhaps "  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

"At  last,  I've  been  officially  under  fire ! "  he  wrote  a  week 
later.  "Officially,  I  mean,  as  part  of  my  duty,  instead  of 
just  happening  to  be  there. 

"I  was  sent  with  my  comrades  Nadier  and  Pazel,  to 
reach  a  regiment  in  a  fairly  safe  place.  But  to  get  to  it 
we  had  to  cross  a  part  of  the  road  where  the  Germans 
always  keep  guns  trained,  firing  every  few  minutes  for 
luck,  whether  they  sight  anything  or  not.  You  get  them 
or  you  don't — I  should  say  they  get  us  or  don't. 

"Ran  full  speed,  I  can  assure  you;  a  giddy  rate  of  four  or 
five  miles  an  hour,  at  the  very  least.  But  we'd  no  sooner 
reached  it  than — Zing!  Boom!  Weren't  we  excited, 
though!  The  shells  made  such  an  unholy  row  that  we 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         241 

were  almost  deafened,  for  a  while.  As  for  Nadier,  he  went 
quite  deaf.  But  then,  he  had  an  extraordinary  adventure. 

"The  first  shell  that  came,  before  we  could  crouch 
down,  burst  about  twenty  feet  away.  The  pieces  flew 
over  our  heads,  by  good  luck;  or  most  of  them  did.  The 
shell  itself,  however,  ripped  up  a  bit  of  hard  dirt,  as  it 
struck,  and  sent  this  new  sort  of  projectile  flying.  Hit 
Nadier  on  the  side  of  the  head,  and  knocked  him  over,  flat. 
He  knew  he  was  stretched  out  by  some  hideous  force,  and 
knew  he  must  be  killed.  Didn't  we  laugh,  Pazel  and  I! 
It  was  ever  so  long  before  we  could  get  our  breath  to  call 
him  back  to  life.  And  then  he  couldn't  hear.  We  shall 
never  allow  him  to  forget  his  death  and  funeral.  Because 
we  got  up  a  funeral  for  him.  Made  him  lie  down,  insisting 
that  the  lorry  was  a  hearse,  and  he  had  to  behave  like  a  self- 
respecting  corpse.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  was  glad  enough 
to  be  quiet,  poor  chap,  for  he  had  a  bad  headache — which 
he  would  have  been  spared  if  he'd  been  killed,  he  said 
mournfully.  Pazel  and  I  think  he's  indecently  proud  of 
the  'wound'  he  got,  a  lump  on  the  side  of  his  head.  He 
tries  to  brag,  but  when  we're  about,  we  take  the  arrogance 
out  of  him  by  observing  it's  on  the  wrong  side,  i.e.,  where 
he  toppled  over  and  did  his  best  to  knock  the  floor  out  of 
the  lorry. 

"People  talk  about  the  behaviour  of  our  troops,"  he 
went  on,  "and  too  much  couldn't  be  said  in  their  praise. 
But  what  may  not  be  realised  is  the  splendid  spirit  found 
among  peasants  and  villagers  behind  the  lines.  Simply 
wonderful!  Talking  of  'calm'  seems  inappropriate,  when 
cannon  are  booming  all  the  time  and  shells  bursting 
everywhere;  certainly  nothing  in  the  circumstances  sug- 
gests peace  of  mind.  Yet  the  impression  one  gets  is  of 
culm.  Or  else  a  clear,  cool  sense  of  duty.  I  don't  know 


242         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

how  to  explain  it;  but  it's  there;  and  it  isn't  either  in- 
difference or  ignorance.  Men  and  women  actually 
within  the  army  lines,  surrounded  by  ravages,  and  threat- 
ened every  minute,  just  go  on  quietly  with  their  work, 
making  the  day  fruitful. 

"Yesterday,  at  one  of  the  most  dangerous  points  we 
pass,  a  point  where  even  foot  soldiers  are  made  to  go 
spaced  out  in  groups  of  two  or  three,  I  saw  an  elderly 
peasant  ploughing.  I  slowed  down  to  ask  if  things  were 
then  so  quiet.  He  answered  Yes;  some  shells  had  fallen 
in  the  next  field  an  hour  before,  but  none  where  he  was. 
(While  he  spoke,  the  cannon  spoke  too.)  I  asked  if 
he  could  keep  at  it  every  day.  'No;  some  days  they 
stop  me,' — and  calling  to  his  horse,  he  went  on." 

Writing  to  me  thus,  Paul  little  suspected  that  Verviller, 
again  threatened,  was  piecing  out  its  existence  under 
rather  similar  conditions.  Work  in  shops  and  fields 
continued,  without  hesitation  or  murmur,  and  with  that 
limitless,  sublime  patience  which  has  been  one  of  the 
most  unexpected  yet  most  complete  developments  in 
France  under  the  influences  of  a  protracted  as  well  as 
cruel  war.  The  details  of  its  expression  were  such  that 
they  might  pass  unnoticed,  unless  one  looked  closely. 
Often  one  could  not  detect  distress,  from  the  appearance 
or  the  conversation  of  those  most  affected. 

One  evening,  for  instance,  I  was  invited  to  dine  with 
an  officer  and  his  wife  at  their  hotel  in  Paris;  was  very 
pleasantly  entertained;  and  learned  only  accidentally, 
in  reply  to  a  question  as  I  left,  that  news  had  reached 
them,  shortly  before  my  arrival,  of  the  total  loss  of  their 
home  in  Soissons.  On  another  occasion,  a  man  I  had 
known  for  years  began  telling  me  of  his  brother-in-law, 
whose  factory  was  closed  and  the  machinery  rusting, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          243 

whose  wife  and  children  were  dependent  on  the  charity 
of  various  members  of  the  family,  and  who  had  no  hope 
of  avoiding  insolvency  at  the  end  of  the  war:  yet  they 
were  all  perfectly  cheerful,  and  spoke  or  wrote  of  nothing 
save  affairs  of  general  interest.  While  my  friend  talked, 
I  bethought  me  of  his  personal  problems,  and  asked  after 
his  affairs.  "Mine?  They  no  longer  exist,"  he  replied 
simply;  and  reverted  to  the  theme  of  his  admirable 
brother-in-law. 

I  related  these  and  similar  instances  to  Paul. 

"Good!"  he  answered.  "That's  the  sort  of  spirit 
we  want." 

At  about  this  time,  I  received  a  note  from  the  Count, 
now  Captain  de  Vervillers,  who  had  spoken  to  his  Colonel 
about  Paul.  Transfers  from  one  service  to  another  were 
being  avoided,  at  that  juncture,  for  fear  of  causing  con- 
fusion; but  soon  all  men  fit  for  field  service,  including 
many  from  the  auxiliary,  would  have  a  turn  at  the  front. 
The  Captain  hoped  we  should  not  have  to  await  this 
development,  but  could  not  say  more  at  present;  and 
advised  Paul  to  be  patient,  doing  his  best  where  he  was, 
and  deserving  the  esteem  of  his  officers.  Decidedly 
vague;  yet  such  as  it  was,  I  forwarded  the  letter  to  Paul 
who  found  much  comfort  in  it. 

Gradually,  his  work  had  extended;  sometimes  he  would 
go  off  on  long  expeditions  with  those  supplies  of  his, 
whatever  they  were — for  he  was  held  to  discretion  in 
certain  respects,  and  though  I  often  had  news,  I  rarely 
could  guess  whence  it  came.  He  surprised  me,  then,  with 
a  long,  detailed  letter,  prompted,  I  suppose,  by  his  thrilling 
adventure  and  the  profound  indignation  he  felt.  No 
names  were  mentioned,  yet  the  scene  was  not  difficult 
to  identify. 


244         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"The  three  of  us  had  been  sent  to  D ,"  he  wrote, 

"with  a  special  lot  of  stuff,  and  got  there  so  late  we  were 
told  to  wait  until  morning  for  our  return  orders.  Un- 
usual; for  the  place,  often  under  fire,  had  been  practically 
evacuated.  But  a  good  many  civilians  have  wanted  to 
stay.  They  tell  you:  'After  the  war,  there  will  be  two 
classes  of  people  here,  those  who  remained  and  those  who 
went  away.  We  prefer  to  be  among  the  first.*  And  in- 
deed they  are,  among  the  first  anywhere.  Why,  when 
shells  burst  near  them,  in  this  town  which  isn't  a  military 
centre  and  has  no  strategic  value  and  is  being  bombarded 
only  so  as  to  terrorise  the  population, — when  shells  burst 
near  them,  or  blow  up  the  house  next  to  theirs,  they 
only But  I'd  better  tell  the  story  properly. 

"Nadier  and  Pazel  and  I  were  put  with  our  lorry  in  a 
sort  of  shed.  Had  been  a  clearing  hospital,  I  think; 
big  place,  with  a  bomb-proof  vault  under  it.  I  was 
acting  as  corporal,  and  in  the  morning  was  about  to  start 
for  our  orders,  when  two  loud  explosions  rang  out.  The 
first  thought  I  had  was  that  the  famous  fifteen-inch 
naval  gun  had  been  trained  on  the  town  once  more. 
Yet  the  rare  people  I  saw  in  the  street  didn't  pay  much 
attention  to  the  noise,  and  I  told  myself  they  knew  more 
about  such  tea-parties  than  I  did. 

"Meanwhile,  cannon  were  booming  every  fifteen 
seconds  or  so;  I  counted  forty  reports,  but  still  nobody 
except  me  seemed  to  be  noticing,  so  I  concluded  it  must 
be  target-practice.  The  reports  sounded  on;  I  counted 
ninety  or  a  hundred.  Then  a  violent  explosion  came, 
not  like  the  others,  but  loud  and  sinister.  The  whole 
street  shook.  Over  the  house-tops  ahead  of  me,  I  saw 
a  huge  blackish  cloud  shoot  up,  funnel-shaped,  and  hang 
clammily  in  relief  against  the  sky;  its  edges  grew  ragged 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         245 

and  frittered  away  slowly,  until  it  had  all  shivered  off  into 
the  air. 

"If  I  hadn't  known  then  that  it  was  a  big  naval  shell, 
there  was  plenty  of  outer  evidence.  People  began  running 
in  all  directions;  no  element  of  panic,  only  running  to 
gain  time.  Whistles  and  sirens  blew  like  twenty  circus 
steam  pianos  gone  mad  all  at  once.  On  the  top  of  the 
Belfry,  a  flag  with  thirteen  blue  and  white  stripes  was 
hoisted.  That  meant  a  bombardment.  The  people  I  had 
seen  running  were  bound  for  their  cellars. 

"I'll  take  my  chances  out  in  the  streets,  if  it's  a  case 
of  big  shells  in  an  old-fashioned  town;  real  military  de- 
fences are  different  from  improvised  places  with  buildings 
over  them  waiting  to  collapse.  The  annoying  thing 
about  these  particular  shells,  fired  from  such  a  distance, 
is  that  they  follow  a  trajectory  with  a  high  curve,  so 
the  whistling  can't  be  heard;  there's  no  warning  and  they 
are  timed  to  cut  through  several  storeys  before  exploding. 
I  passed  some  houses  that  had  been  hit.  Never  saw 
neater  work.  Brick,  cement,  timbers  ripped  apart, 
from  ground  to  roof;  and  the  pieces,  including  samples 
of  houses  on  each  side,  scattered  about  as  a  child  might 
toss  a  handful  of  toys  over  the  nursery  floor. 

"There  were  several  other  big  explosions;  the  calls  of 
horns  and  sirens  grew  shriller;  nobody  was  left  in  the 
streets  but  a  few  officers  and  soldiers  bound  on  errands. 

"When  I  got  to  the  barracks,  the  men  said  that  aviators 
always  preceded  the  bombardments;  one  had  come  this 
morning,  to  give  the  range,  and  sent  down  quite  a  number 
of  bombs,  then  escaped  while  the  big  gun  got  to  work. 

"My  orders  were  to  clear  out.  As  I  returned  to  Nadier 
and  Pazel,  the  explosions  started  once  more — bombs 
from  another  aviatik.  What  our  planes  were  doing,  I 


246         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

can't  imagine;  gone  too  far  afield  chasing  the  first  Germans, 
I  suppose.  Anyhow,  our  land-batteries  bombarded  the 
thing  zealously.  The  aviatik  seemed  to  be  right  over 
my  head,  though  it  wasn't;  and  as  the  shells  fired  at  it 
would  burst,  they  spread  out  in  little  painty  white  clouds, 
consistent  and  clean-cut  like  those  in  old  pictures  with 
a  Saint  walking  on  them.  They  hung  up  there  in  bunches 
for  ever  so  long,  drifting  with  the  wind  and  sinking 
slowly.  The  aviatik,  quite  the  contrary,  rose  very  high, 
beyond  range,  and  vanished  just  as  successfully. 

"Some  people  had  taken  refuge  in  our  bomb-proof. 
I  groped  my  way  in,  from  curiosity.  Men  and  women 
sat  quietly  on  chairs;  no  impatience,  no  anxiety — only 
waiting.  One  lady  had  brought  her  silver  toilet  articles 
with  her,  I  don't  know  whether  to  use  or  to  save  them; 
others  cherished  small  trifles.  A  lantern  swung  from  a 
beam,  shedding  a  dim  light  on  the  strange,  pathetic 
group.  They  asked  me  if  it  was  over,  and  I  told  them  I 
didn't  know;  the  aviatik  had  come  again.  The  general 
verdict  was  that  it  might  be  well  to  stay  down  there  a 
while  longer;  they  had  already  waited  an  hour  or  more, 
patient  and  resigned.  I  heard  not  a  word  of  complaint 
or  impatience. 

"An  English  Red  Cross  lady  told  me  that  in  the  railway 
sheds  some  nurses  and  wounded  soldiers  had  been  struck. 

"Nothing  more  seemed  to  happen.  The  aviatik 
was  now  after  smaller  game,  preferable  for  purposes  of 
terrorising.  We  three  soon  knew,  because  our  way  lay 

through  the  tiny  town  of  B ,  five  miles  to  the  south, 

on  which  the  big  shells  were  presently  to  fall.  Unde- 
fended, ungarrisoned,  as  harmless  as  a  town  can  be,  the 
spectacle  was  appalling. 

"In  one  of  the  first  streets,  a  house  reduced  half  to 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT          247 

dust  lay  on  our  right.  A  citizen  came  up  with  a  dry 
laugh:  'Don't  waste  your  time  over  that.  It's  nothing. 
See  the  Place  Gambetta.' 

"We  went  there.  A  corner  house  had  positively  been 
blown  over  much  of  the  square,  and  some  pieces  had 
reached  neighbouring  streets.  Only  the  walls  of  the 
inner  angle  were  standing,  and  these  badly  damaged; 
of  the  houses  on  either  side,  one  had  lost  its  roof,  the  other 
its  upper  storey,  and  both  were  out  of  plumb  as  if  about 
to  collapse.  Buildings  in  the  same  block  were  shattered, 
and  shutters  and  glasses  smashed  as  far  as  the  other  end 
of  the  square.  The  people  who  lived  in  the  wrecked 
house  had  gone  out,  all  three  of  them,  barely  twenty 
minutes  before  the  shell  came. 

"The  work  of  other  shells  had  been  as  bad,  or  worse. 
One  had  been  aimed  at  the  military  infirmary,  but  fell 
next  door.  I  looked  for  vestiges  to  show  that  this  mass 
of  nameless  trash  had  been  a  house.  Not  a  wall,  not  a 
floor,  not  a  stick  of  furniture  could  be  identified;  only  the 
chimney  rose,  a  solid  column  above  the  trash-heap,  and 
a  black  crucifix  still  hung  there,  over  the  mantel  of  what 
had  been  the  second  storey — the  only  thing  spared — a 
big  Jansenist  crucifix,  with  convulsed  features  and  writh- 
ing limbs.  Horrible!  One  woman  had  been  killed  and 
a  man  and  a  woman  injured;  and  two  were  buried  in  the 
cellar,  beyond  rescue. 

"  Citizens  stood  about,  quite  calm,  answering  questions 
or  volunteering  monosyllabic  information.  No  signs  of 
panic;  they  were  not  afraid,  even;  only  very  sad.  They 
said  twelve  were  known  to  be  killed,  seven  wounded.  A  few 
townspeople  were  already  on  their  way  to  Paris,  but  most 
had  decided  to  stick  it  out  here;  some  were  bound  for 
a  village,  believed  to  lie  beyond  range,  for  a  few  days. 


248         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"As  we  were  leaving,  we  saw  a  crowd  gathered  round 
a  young  woman  who  wore  a  hat  with  two  red  plumes 
waving  half  a  yard  above  her  head.  A  gendarme  was 
questioning  her.  She  claimed  to  have  come  from  Paris 
forty-eight  hours  ago  to  visit  a  sister  about  whom  she 
appeared  imperfectly  informed;  her  papers,  when  ex- 
amined, proved  irregular.  From  this  discovery  to  the 
belief  she  might  be  a  spy  responsible  for  the  destruction 
of  the  town,  there  was  but  a  step.  Yet  as  the  gendarme 
led  her  off  to  make  further  inquiries,  no  threats  were 
uttered.  A  grizzled  convalescent  soldier  called  out, 
and  the  crowd  approved:  'Take  off  those  red  plumes! 
This  is  no  place  for  Paris  fashions — our  town  is  in  mourn- 
ing.' 

"Along  the  road,  we  met  many  families  on  then*  tem- 
porary exodus  from  the  stricken,  heroic  little  place. 
Most  were  mothers  with  young  children;  some  carried 
babies  in  their  arms,  pushing  in  front  of  them  the  carriages 
with  a  few  small  necessaries.  No  tears  nor  despair 
visible.  But  sadness  and  patience — such  patience! 

"I  can't  stand  much  more  of  this  sort  of  thing,  really. 
I'm  capable  of  running  away  to  join  a  fighting  regiment, 
though  I  risk  being  shot  as  a  deserter.  Do  you  know 
why  I  was  'acting'  corporal  in  that  expedition  of  ours? 
I  refused  the  stripe  when  offered  to  me,  because  I  feared 
it  might  bind  me  to  my  present  work." 

II 

WHEN  I  next  heard  from  him,  his  address  was  "  Corporal 
P.  Clermont."  Perhaps  he  had  had  early  intimation 
that  Captain  de  Vervillers  was  to  prove  even  better  than 
the  word  which  had  brought  faint  encouragement.  Heavy 
losses  presently  caused  the  th  Infantry  to  return 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         249 

to  its  base  and  re-form.  Acting  on  instructions  from  his 
protector,  and  presumably  seconded  in  high  places,  Paul 
obtained  a  short  leave,  proceeded  to  the  base,  was  in- 
troduced to  the  Colonel;  and  the  transfer  became  an  ac- 
complished fact. 

Knowledge  that  the  boy  was  happy  comforted  me  as 
time  wore  on  with  scant  news  from  him.  Often  for  a 
week  or  more  all  I  received  would  be  a  printed  post-card, 
from  which  the  inappropriate  formulas  had  been  deleted, 
and  to  which  his  signature  and  code  address  were  added. 
So  I  learned  repeatedly  of  his  being  "well,"  and  having 
"received  your  letters,"  and  promising  to  "write  soon"; 
while  firm  strokes  of  blue  pencil  denied  such  painful 
facts  as  being  wounded  or  in  hospital.  Then  it  would 
be  a  written  card,  or  perhaps  a  letter,  but  so  hedged  in 
by  discretion  that,  avoiding  to  speak  of  events  or  opera- 
tions, he  could  give  me  little  idea  of  his  experiences.  I 
reproached  him  with  this,  stating  that  I  knew  soldiers 
in  trenches  no  less  active  than  his,  doubtless,  who  man- 
aged to  send  much  information  to  their  family  and  friends. 
To  which  he  replied:  "I  don't  know  their  orders  (consigne) 
but  I  know  ours." 

Brief  and  restrained  though  they  were,  these  phrases 
told  their  tale,  when  brought  together;  and  if  his  former 
attitude  had  filled  me  with  confidence,  the  new  reinforced 
me  with  triple  steel.  The  fine  theory  and  generalisation 
of  his  civilian  and  motor-lorry  days  had  vanished.  Re- 
mote contingencies,  or  the  opinion  of  people  not  doing 
the  active  work,  had  ceased  to  count.  One  single  idea 
dominated.  He  and  comrades  whom  he  esteemed, 
commanded  by  officers  they  loved,  had  before  them  a  hard 
task  and  a  long  one;  but  they  were  there  to  see  it  through, 
and  so  the  less  said  about  it  the  better. 


250         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

One  day,  after  much  time  had  passed,  a  small  packet 
came  for  me.  A  letter  from  the  Count  de  Vervillers 
accompanied  it: 

DEAR  MB.  AUBRET, 

I  surprised  our  friend  diligently  scribbling  in  a  journal  he  has, 
it  seems,  kept  for  your  benefit,  since  lengthy  letters  cannot  be 
sent  always.  We  don't  approve  of  the  principle  of  diaries. 
Accordingly  I  confiscated  this  book  and  the  appended  pages. 
But  I  found  nothing  of  a  nature  to  compromise  anybody,  though 
much  will  be  of  particular  interest  to  you.  Wherefore  I  forward 
it  with  the  assent  of  the  author,  whose  new  responsibilities  give 
him  so  much  work  that  he  says  he  would  have  been  unable  to 
do  more  than  finish  the  sentence  interrupted  when  I  surprised 
him  at  this  literary  task. 

The  book  is  about  twice  the  size  it  should  be,  for  pur- 
poses of  entering  a  pocket  conveniently;  so  its  fate  has 
been  to  get  folded  down  the  middle  and  all  but  broken 
in  two.  Material  evidence  shows  that  it  formerly  be- 
longed to  a  German.  As  frontispiece  appears  a  wood- 
engraving  of  Emperor  William  II,  looking  perhaps  twenty- 
five  years  old,  handsome  as  a  whiskered  Adonis,  undaunted 
as  a  pagan  god,  and  inspired  as  a  first-day  saint.  After 
comes  a  map  of  this  monarch's  domains;  then  follow  three 
or  four  pages  roughly  scribbled  in  German,  notes  about 
the  regions  crossed  by  the  invaders.  The  author  lacked 
both  observation  and  imagination;  the  outline  for  a  love- 
letter,  interleaved,  must  have  been  cribbed  from  a  popular 
novel.  The  remaining  pages  were  filled  by  Paul;  and, 
not  having  sufficed,  are  swollen  out  with  ordinary  letter- 
paper  at  the  end. 

This  spoil  of  war,  as  I  discovered  later,  had  been  a 
friendly  offering  from  the  most  reprehensible  character 
jn  his  squad;  an  ex-butcher  of  La  Villette  and  an  Apache 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         251 

"chief."  The  name — Berral — occurs  frequently  through- 
out the  narrative. 

From  their  initial  contact,  Berral  had  been  aggressive. 
Older  than  the  man  newly  placed  in  authority  over  him, 
and  more  experienced  in  trench-fighting,  he  derided 
the  idea  that  any  benefit  could  result  from  studying  the 
theory  of  war;  the  education  obtained  in  such  districts 
as  Belleville,  Charonne,  La  Villette  might  be  useful,  but 
not  that  found  elsewhere  in  Paris.  Respectful  towards 
officers,  though  his  entire  existence  had  previously  con- 
sisted of  anarchistic  insubordination,  the  ex-butcher 
resented  interference  from  non-coms,  and  more  especially 
from  a  simple  gradS.  Paul  could  probably  have  been 
trusted  for  tactfulness  in  delicate  situations;  and  good- 
humour  is  a  quality  which  has  rarely  failed  him;  but 
firmness,  which  is  the  third  main  characteristic  demanded 
of  a  corporal,  the  firmness  which  never  blinks  a  serious 
fault  nor  represses  a  slight  one,  unvarying  in  quality 
yet  infinitely  adaptable,  could  come  only  with  the  tests 
which  help  to  make  it.  Berral  supplied  many  such  tests, 
I  gather;  and  I  supposed,  when  reading  the  diary,  that 
Paul  had  some  modest  feeling  as  of  a  debt  towards  this 
man  who  had  made  the  school  a  hard,  hence  effective  one. 

But  there  was  more,  which  I  shall  put  down  here  in  its 
proper  place  though  I  heard  it  from  Paul's  lips  many  months 
after  reading  the  diary.  Small  wonder  our  corporal 
abstained  from  compromising  his  sympathetic  ruffian  by 
noting  the  episode. 

The  weather  was  sultry;  no  clean  water  had  been 
available  for  very  long;  the  wine  had  gone  sour  beyond 
possibility  of  drinking;  black  coffee,  served  as  sole  bever- 
age, had  reduced  the  men  to  a  state  which  varied  from 
extreme  irritability  to  a  heaviness  approaching  somnolence. 


252    „    THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

In  the  course  of  an  intolerably  hot  and  lifeless  afternoon, 
a  fresh  supply  of  wine  came.  But  there  was  not  happiness 
in  its  train:  for,  hi  the  hopeless  days,  Berral  had  won,  at 
cards,  the  next-portion- to-come  of  many  comrades. 

'That  night,  just  before  a  round  by  Captain  de  Vervillers, 
Paul  crept  out  in  time  to  save  Berral's  life,  rousing  him 
from  drunken  slumbers  on  sentry-duty;  the  man's  fear  was 
so  great  that  he  sobered  almost  instantly,  and  Paul  knew 
him  well  enough  to  believe  there  would  be  no  further  of- 
fence. The  Captain  suspected  something;  in  fact,  a  little 
later  he  addressed  to  Paul  a  cryptic  phrase  which  was  a 
discreet  endorsement  for  unlawful  initiatives  in  exceptional 
cases. 

As  far  as  I  know,  Paul  and  Berral  never  discussed  the 
affair  afterwards;  but  thenceforth  the  Apache-butcher  be- 
came the  young  corporal's  slave,  and  the  gift  of  this  diary 
was  a  part  of  the  tribute.  Paul  writes : 

He  got  it  early  in  the  war,  when  the  dragoons  were  sent  towards 
the  frontier.  They  met  a  lot  of  German  boys,  volunteers  who 
didn't  know  how  to  do  anything  but  ride  and  shoot,  without 
training  or  discipline,  just  put  on  horseback  and  sent  to  skirmish 
ahead  of  the  army  and  burn  and  pillage  and  terrorise — and  kill 
if  they  could,  or  get  killed,  clearing  the  road  for  real  soldiers. 
Berral  galloped  down  the  sergeant  of  such  a  detachment,  and 
stuck  him  in  the  back  with  his  spear — "  Before  he  could  turn 
on  me,  you  know!"  I  never  would  have  thought  of  keeping  a 
diary  if  Berral  hadn't  taken  this  one,  and  kept  it  as  a  treasure 
until  he  gave  it  to  me.  Good  old  Berral! 

For  Captain  de  Vervillers,  Berral  devised  a  different 
form  of  tribute.  There  was,  within  full  view  of  their 
trenches,  a  farm  which  had  been  alternately  held  by 
French  and  by  Germans,  according  to  the  variable  fortunes 
of  war;  and  the  Germans  occupied  it  now,  but  dared 
frequent  it  only  at  night.  Wherefore  Berral,  in  broad 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         253 

daylight,  seized  upon  an  hour's  leisure  to  brave  the 
"Boches,"  walked  over  as  the  readiest  of  targets,  plucked 
a  handful  of  flowers,  and  brought  them  back  to  the 
Captain. 

"Close  shave,"  Paul's  diary  begins.  The  two  words 
stand  alone,  at  the  top  of  a  page. 

Bullet  struck  my  cartridge-pouch,  full  force,  and  knocked 
me  down.  Scattered  the  cartridges  all  over  the  ground.  Why 
they  didn't  go  off,  I  can't  imagine.  Anyway,  they  stopped  the 
bullet  and  saved  me.  Nobody  could  guess  my  first  notion  when 
I  recovered  my  senses:  to  find  those  cartridges  and  know  why 
they  hadn't  gone  off!  Got  only  three;  not  the  right  ones,  be- 
cause they  hadn't  a  scratch.  The  rest  must  have  jumped  a  long 
way.  But  more  shots  were  raining  all  round  me,  and  I  got  under 
cover,  not  being  a  fool. 

The  next  entry  bears  the  melancholy  head-line:  "No 
shots." 

That's  the  best  I  can  do  as  a  date,  already  we  can't  count 
the  days;  if  we're  not  to  be  able  to  count  events  either,  then 
what  shall  we  do  for  calendars?  To-day  has  been  quiet  like  a 
week-day  along  the  Mareille.  If  this  sort  of  thing  keeps  up, 
I  shall  regret  the  food-supply  column. 

Yet  I  know  I  need  only  put  my  head  out  through  those  bushes 
stuck  artificially  between  the  trees  on  our  hill-top,  five  yards 
from  me,  and  I  shouldn't  have  any  head  left.  One  thing  I've 
learned  is  lhat  the  art  of  fighting  doesn't  necessarily  consist 
in  getting  killed.  Captain  de  Vervillers  tells  us  at  every  op- 
portunity: "Courage  is  an  admirable  quality,  but  no  soldier  ought 
to  die  before  accounting  for  at  least  four  of  the  enemy."  The 
first  time  he  said  that,  all  looked  foolish.  Since  I've  been 
here,  I  don't  believe  any  of  us  has  accounted  for  anything  save 
provisions. 

For  some  days  after,  the  entries  are  short  and  desultory. 
The  men  have  been  "improving"  their  quarters.  One 


254         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

note  head-lined  "Grand  Hotel"  announces  the  completion 
of  that  establishment.  Another  labelled  "Casino"  deals 
rather  vaguely  with  questions  of  internal  decoration.  A 
third  entitled  "Day  Walk"  says  that  so  many  shots  have 
been  fired  at  soldiers  hi  the  path  ordinarily  used,  near  the 
crest  of  their  hill  and  leading  from  the  bastions  on  the  very 
edge  to  the  rest-camp  in  the  woods  of  the  far  slope,  that  a 
new  "avenue,"  nicely  screened,  has  been  made;  and  the 
other,  shorter  and  more  convenient,  will  become  the 
"Night  Walk."  Placards  have  been  posted  at  "corners" 
of  these  thoroughfares;  "so  that,"  Paul  continues,  "we 
might  think  ourselves  in  Paris,  on  the  Boulevard — 
especially  at  night." 

The  next  entry,  long,  flowing,  indignant,  is  a  surprise: 

NEWS. 

A  bunch  of  papers  came  this  morning.  We  are  all  thoroughly 
disgusted.  Every  one  of  these  Parisian  sheets  talks  about  the 
"comforts"  of  our  trenches,  and  the  merry  lives  we  lead  .  .  . 

Hang  it  all,  we  may  try  to  make  the  best  of  it;  we  may  for- 
get, sometimes,  much  that  we  are  forced  to  tolerate;  but  to  rep- 
resent us  as  enjoying  a  sort  of  picnic,  better  off  than  if  we  were 
at  home,  or  else  better  off  than  mobilised  workmen  who  draw 
their  ten  or  fifteen  francs  a  day,  as  in  peace  times,  while  other 
workmen,  and  masters  and  capitalists  too,  wearing  the  same 
uniform,  subject  to  the  same  laws,  are  drawing  their  few  sous  a 
day  and  losing  their  health  and  seeing  their  business  go  to  ruin 
into  the  bargain.  .  .  . 

I  say,  next  thing  will  be  to  propose  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the 
Germans,  and  express  our  appreciation  of  this  pleasant  oppor- 
tunity they  give  us  for  leading  the  simple  life.  It  is  true  that 
those  who  don't  die  of  pneumonia  or  bronchitis,  or  get  crippled 
with  rheumatism  or  infected  with  tuberculosis,  do  become  hard- 
ened so  that  nothing  but  steel  or  lead  can  scratch  through  their 
hides. 

This  sort  of  newspaper  talk  is  our  own  fault,  I  suppose.  We 
certainly  can't  be  expected  to  adopt  a  depressed  tone  when 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         255 

writing  home.  There's  nothing  to  be  depressed  about.  But 
that  isn't  saying  we  lie  on  beds  of  roses  and  drink — what  is 
the  stuff  heathen  gods  used  to  drink?  Since  it's  got  to  be 
done — not  the  drinking,  but  the  work — we  don't  grumble. 
It  even  gets  to  seem  right  and  natural.  But  from  that  to  telling 
civilians  we're  enjoying  ourselves  more  than  at  home.  .  .  . 

On  the  last  page,  I  alluded  in  rather  fine  language  to  our  new 
quarters.  Perhaps  I,  too,  have  contributed  to  keep  that  legend 
going,  without  wanting  to.  For  the  sake  of  historic  accuracy, 
I  might  as  well  specify  that  our  own  underground  city  is  really 
comfortable — when  dry;  and  that  rough  platforms  of  interwoven 
twigs  laid  out  on  the  earth  don't  begin  to  float  until  water  has 
trickled  in  for  quite  a  while.  The  "Grand  Hotel"  is  furnished 
with  a  depth  of  four  inches  of  straw  on  the  floor,  truly  a  luxury; 
and  it  has  a  window  a  foot  square  which  lets  in  appreciable  light. 
As  for  the  "Casino"  and  its  decorations,  these  consist  of  news- 
paper jokes  and  sketches  stuck  over  a  shelf  built  into  the  logs 
of  the  inner  wall.  Luxuries  being  of  a  relative  nature,  it's  as 
well  to  define  them  before  getting  excited. 

Old  Andresy  has  fallen  into  another  of  his  melancholy  moods. 
I  believe  the  articles  are  responsible.  He  came  and  sat  down 
by  me  as  I  wrote,  and  began  to  chatter  in  his  usual  way  about 
anything  he  sees  or  the  first  notion  that  enters  his  head.  Of 
course  I  let  him  run  on.  A  man  near  the  forties,  discharged 
for  ill-health  when  trying  to  do  his  military  service  fifteen 
years  ago,  who  enlisted  at  once  when  the  war  began,  without 
waiting  to  be  called  up  and  examined — of  course  we  admire  and 
humour  him.  He's  done  a  lot  of  fighting  already,  and  been 
wounded. 

"I  hope  I  get  shot  soon  again,"  says  he. 

"Easy  enough,"  say  I.  "Just  look  out  through  those 
bushes " 

"I  don't  want  to  die;  I've  got  a  wife  and  children,"  he  went 
on.  "A  bullet  in  the  arm  or  leg,  you  know;  doesn't  hurt  much, 
and  really  doesn't  matter.  Better  than  fighting  day  after 
day  up  to  your  knees  in  the  water  of  trenches.  You  notice  the 
sky  seems  clouding  over?  You  may  recover  from  a  bullet,  but 
once  you  begin  with  'pains'  they  stay  for  life.  I'd  give  a  hun- 
dred sous  to  a  Boche  to  put  another  bullet  in  me,  quick." 


256         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

He  laughed.  So  did  I.  He  grew  very  solemn  and  watched 
me  for  some  moments  before  saying: 

"You  may  laugh,  but  I  don't  think  it's  funny." 

"1  laughed  because  you  did,"  I  answered. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  we  all  try  to  make  the  best  of  it,"  he  said, 
seeming  to  remember.  "But  the  only  fun  we  had  was  long 
before  you  came.  It  has  stopped,  now.  It  was  in  the  days 
when  we  dug  ditches  for  trenches  anywhere,  and  neither  army 
knew  what  it  was  walking  into.  There  would  be  no  firing,  and 
we  would  see  the  enemy  coming  along,  quite  innocent;  and  each 
of  us  would  pick  his  man.  We  said  to  one  another,  I'll  take 
that  little  one  over  there!  You  settle  the  big  one  on  the  left! 
Which  one  will  you  drop?  And  so  on.  Then  we'd  get  the 
order  to  fire.  Very  funny,  to  see  a  man  tumble  over  when  you 
have  picked  him  out  while  he  walked  quietly  along,  jesting  and 
not  suspecting  anything!  We  cheered  each  other  when  our  aim 
was  good  and  we'd  kept  our  word.  But  when  the  answering 
volley  came,  and  our  men  died,  it  wasn't  funny  any  more.  No, 
the  only  real  fun  is  in  picking  your  Boche  and  killing  him  at 
the  first  discharge." 

Andresy  looked  quite  mad,  as  he  spoke.  Strange,  but  the  face 
of  every  man  changes  when  he  speaks  of  those  he's  killed.  It's 
what  we  are  here  for;  yet  none  of  us  seems  capable  of  it  until  we 
get  started  on  a  charge,  or  else  are  attacked;  then  we  go  mad, 
and  get  mad  when  we  recall  it.  Or  perhaps  it's  another  sort  of  na- 
ture that  was  already  in  us,  deep  down,  and  comes  to  the  surface. 

I  didn't  know  what  to  answer.  Which  didn't  matter,  be- 
cause Andresy  became  himself  again,  but  more  and  more  melan- 
choly. Such  a  brave  and  simple  soldier;  so  willing  in  small 
things,  and  never  complaining  of  what  he  has  to  do.  Since  he 
gets  satisfaction  from  occasional  Hamletising,  I  don't  stop  him. 

"We're  being  killed  off  at  such  a  rate,"  he  continued,  "that 
if  the  war  lasts  another  six  months  I  don't  believe  a  single  one 
of  us  now  fighting  will  still  be  alive."  After  a  silence  he  con- 
cluded: "When  a  black  is  in  danger,  or  dying,  he  cries:' Marabout! 
Marabout  I'  Means  fate,  I  suppose,  or  God.  That  makes  him 
happy.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  say  when  my  turn  comes. 
But  I  know  I  haven't  ever  seen  Marabout,  and  I  have  seen 
life  and  it's  good!" 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         257 

I  am  happy  to  add  that  when  Andresy  appears  once 
again,  on  the  very  next  page,  it  is  in  a  group  of  radiant 
soldiers,  including  the  Apache  Berral,  who  have  rescued 
three  kittens  under  a  bush  and  have  decided  to  adopt 
them  as  children  of  the  regiment.  Andresy  has  taken 
off  his  coat  to  make  a  bed  for  them,  and  Berral  looks 
annoyed,  for  a  moment,  that  he  did  not  think  of  this 
first;  but  all  join  in  gleeful  exclamations  when  one  kitten 
discovers  that  a  sleeve  is  a  tunnel  in  which  games  of 
choo-choo  cars  can  be  organised,  whereupon  this  infant 
prodigy  is  baptised  a  "poilu." 

Now  Paul  finds  a  classical  quotation  for  his  date,  taking 
it  from  that  tragedy  of  Shakespeare's  which  I  have  pointed 
out  to  him  as  the  neglected  contrast  which  serves  to 
illuminate  Hamlet.  What,  indeed,  could  be  more  evident 
than  the  relation  between  a  king  who  meditates  more  than 
is  good  for  him  after  each  event,  and  the  prince  who 
meditates  too  much  before? 

"Let's  talk  of  graves,  of  worms,  and  epitaphs." 

Andresy  started  it.  Said  he  never  was  afraid  except  once; 
the  first  time  he  was  under  fire,  but  not  when  it  started.  They 
were  in  the  trenches,  both  sides  going  pretty  hot,  all  aiming  and 
shooting  regularly. 

"The  man  next  to  me  was  a  good  friend  of  mine,"  Andresy 
went  on.  "I  said  something  and  he  was  answering;  my  eyes 
were  on  him.  A  bullet  struck  him  over  the  nose,  between 'the 
eyes,  and  came  out  at  the  back  of  his  head.  Killed  him  clean, 
in  less  than  a  second,  while  he  was  speaking  and  I  watching 
him.  I  couldn't  fire  for  another  ten  minutes.  Too  badly 
frightened  to  move.  I  lay  where  I'd  been,  and  he  lay  where 
he'd  been;  only  I  was  alive  and  he  was  dead.  In  those  ten 
minutes  I  got  used  to  the  idea.  So  I  caught  up  my  gun  and 
went  to  work.  It's  seemed  quite  natural,  since." 

"You  took  it  better  than  I  did,"  Berral  observed.  "I  was 
lying  in  the  trenches;  our  company  was  being  slowly  driven 


258         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

back  all  along  the  line.  A  lot  of  men  had  been  killed,  and 
the  others  were  withdrawing  singly  or  in  groups.  One  comrade 
and  I  were  the  last  to  stay,  just  to  take  a  few  more  shots.  I 
fired,  and  my  friend  didn't  follow  it  up.  'He  thinks  it's  time 
we  went  too,'  I  said  to  myself;  so  I  said  aloud,  'Well,  old  man, 
are  we  going?'  I  put  out  my  hand  as  I  spoke,  and  touched 
him.  He'd  been  killed  only  a  moment  before — bullet  in  the 
heart.  I  was  alone  in  that  trench  with  the  dead.  And  I  can 
tell  you  I  jumped  up  and  RAN!  Didn't  care  about  the  bullets 
I  drew  on  myself.  All  I  cared  was  to  get  out  of  that  place, 
dead  or  alive!" 

Constant  had  been  listening  in  that  dreamy  way  of  his, 
but  hadn't  made  a  remark.  Looked  as  if  he  wanted  to,  but 
didn't  know  how  to  begin.  His  face  was  shaved  and  unshaved, 
of  course.  The  ends  of  his  long  moustache  never  can  find  a 
rest-place  on  the  stubble. 

"What  about  you?"  Berral  asked. 

"When  I  was  wounded,"  said  Constant,  "I'd  been  sent  through 
a  wood  with  a  despatch  calling  for  reinforcements.  I  hadn't 
gone  very  far  when  I  pitched  forward.  Didn't  know  I  was  down 
till  the  visor  of  my  cap  struck  the  ground.  Then " 

"Yes,"  Berral  interrupted,  "but  we're  talking  about  fear. 
How  was  it  when  you  first  felt  afraid?" 

Constant's  lank  face  was  quite  expressionless. 

"The  first  time  I  was  on  a  battle-field  I  didn't  like  it,"  he 
admitted  presently.  "The  second  time,  I  minded  less.  The 
third  time,  I  don't  believe  I  minded  at  all." 

That  was  all  we  could  get  out  of  him.  I  may  be  wrong, 
but  he  struck  me  as  one  of  those  who  haven't  yet  roused  to  what 
fear  means.  Brave  men  aren't  afraid  of  being  afraid,  and  cow- 
ards are  afraid  of  acknowledging  it;  between  the  two  come  heavy- 
minded  people  who  fail  to  realise,  but  who  wake  up  sooner  or 
later  and  get  a  shock. 


The  diary  abruptly  changes  tone;  the  descriptive 
character  towards  which  it  was  tending  falls  away,  and 
the  proportion  of  sentiment  dwindles.  A  shift  of  scene 
has  something  to  do  with  this;  increased  tenseness  of 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         259 

life,  and  gradual  custom  of  hardship,  add  their  share. 
From  the  hill-top  they  guarded,  these  men  have  been 
brought  down  into  the  series  of  trenches  which  carry  on 
the  defences  from  the  rolling  ground  at  its  foot,  over  a 
gentle  rise,  to  the  valley  of  a  small  river.  Behind  the 
third  trench  is  a  forest  where  heavy  guns  gape  ready  to 
support  advances  and  to  defy  attacks;  and  again  beyond 
these,  blockhouses  have  been  built  wherever  roads  cross. 
But  the  men  consider  themselves  an  invincible  host  and 
scorn  such  precautions.  Of  these  details,  the  last  alone 
is  mentioned  in  writing  by  Paul. 

Not  only  have  his  entries  become  short,  but  the 
language  undergoes  a  change.  The  English  which  was 
fluent  at  the  start  becomes  erratic;  yet  he  persists  in  it, 
observing  that  this  will  "help  to  entertain  his  hand — " 
which  would  be  good  French.  Where  a  word  escapes 
him,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  where  he  is  conscious  of 
not  finding  it,  he  slips  in  a  French  one,  sometimes  sug- 
gesting several  English  equivalents.  His  soldier-vocabu- 
lary sits  easily  on  him;  beef  becomes  singe,  bread  boule, 
wine  pinard;  a  man  is  no  longer  mad  but  patraque,  and 
suffers  not  from  homesickness  but  from  cafard;  he  airily 
alludes  to  having  been  sauce  by  the  enemy's  guns,  and 
is  modest  enough  to  mention  fellow-corporals  as  cabots. 

No  complaint  about  lack  of  events  now;  and  slight 
allusion  to  them,  because  they  occur  too  frequently. 
The  first-line  trench  was  very  near  the  Germans,  in  that 
smiling  valley.  On  days  when  all  remained  quiet,  the 
strain  proved  terrible;  at  night  sentinels,  when  relieved, 
would  collapse  after  the  nervous  tension  of  fancying  an 
enemy's  hands  ever  closing  upon  their  throats.  One 
man — Chapard,  of  the  bright  black  eyes,  who  got  excited 
so  easily  and  never  would  take  anything  seriously — rose 


260         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

up,  from  bravado,  as  he  fired;  the  bullets  which  whistled 
about  him  did  no  harm. 

"I'll  do  that  again,  three  times!"  he  cried  out.  Paul 
writes. 

We  hadn't  time  to  stop  him.  They  seemed  to  be  playing 
with  him,  for  he  was  able  to  do  it  twice,  while  I  tried  to  get  to 
him.  He  rose  again  just  as  I  caught  him,  and  fell  back  on  me, 
dead.  I  couldn't  help  telling  the  others  it  served  him  right 
for  being  a  fool. 

A  week  later,  Paul  returns  to  the  diary,  which  he  had 
neglected : 

Something  prompted  me  to  ask  for  news  of  the  Marquis,  to- 
night. We  are  in  rest-camp;  things  have  been  severe,  of  late, 
our  trenches  to  rebuild  in  part  each  day  because  of  the  fire, 
and  no  water  reaching  us;  but  of  course  drill  began  once  more 
as  soon  as  we  got  here,  so  the  men  should  remain  orderly. 

The  Captain  started  at  my  question,  and  asked:  "What 
made  you  come  at  this  moment?"  I  told  him  it  was  impulse. 
Only  then,  I  noticed  he  held  a  letter.  "Five  minutes  ago,  I 
learned  of  my  father's  death — a  soldier's  death,"  he  said.  I 
understood.  We  have  heard  about  the  old  reserve  officers, 
many  retired  because  of  their  age,  but  more  for  incompetence, 
and  the  public  confuses  the  two.  I  am  sure  the  Marquis  ex- 
posed himself  to  death  rather  than  risk  a  seeming  disgrace. 

Some  days  later,  a  brief  note: 

It's  true.  The  Marqu's  drew  a  sword  he  had  got  especially, 
and  charged  t»t  the  head  of  his  men.  He  died  in  time — the 
order  for  his  retirement  was  on  the  way.  That's  what  I  call 
a  soldier. 

The  pages  that  follow  are  filled  with  careless,  fragmen- 
tary lines,  so  summarily  condensed  as  to  be  often  inco- 
herent. Yet  through  them  thrills  a  spirit  that  tells,  as 
it  were  without  words,  the  story  of  patient  waiting, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         261 

of  stolid  endurance,  of  valiant  self-abnegation,  of  desper- 
ate initiative  at  rare  times  and  of  resolute  good-will 
at  others  when  the  strain  is  heaviest;  that  story  of  sound, 
simple  faith  and  of  the  courage  sublime  because  humble, 
which  have  made  the  war  glorious  despite  its  horrors  by 
ennobling  those  who,  having  sacrificed  most  heavily, 
have  proved  worthiest  of  their  trust. 

Here  we  are,  returned.  I  thought  we'd  stay  there.  Berral, 
Andresy,  and  Constant  are  still  ours — the  last  shaved  and 
unshaved,  as  by  habit.  But  his  tall,  loose,  bony  form  did  such 
good  besogne  (business?  execution?)  that  I  shall  not  call  him 
a  hesitant  character  any  more. 

It  was — five,  six  days  ago?  I  do  not  know.  We  attacked, 

to  retake  the  patelin  of  .  (Village  or  hamlet.  Bunch 

of  houses.  For  what  remained  of  it,  we  could  have  left  it, 
and  the  Boches  too.  But  we  wanted  it.) 

Our  company  was  not  on  that  side.  We  must  attack  by 
the  plain.  We  started  like  fine  devils.  I  don't  know  how 
I  and  thirty  men  we  were  found  separated  from  the  others.  I 
alone  as  non-com!  A  true  pagaille.  (What's  mdlimilo  in  Eng- 
lish? I  forget.  Something  like  mix-up.)  It  must  be  said 
that  we  had  fought  very  much,  and  then,  you  understand.  .  .  . 
(That  is  a  good  formula,  when  one  does  not  oneself  understand 
at  all.) 

The  Boches  have  pushed  forward,  their  new  V-trench  is 
between  us  and  ours,  we  are  cut  off.  But  they  must  think  we 
menace  from  this  side,  they  must  believe  us  a  battalion  at 
least.  I  spread  out  my  men.  If  I  know  not  how  to  do  the 
officer,  I  commence  all  the  same  to  be  something  of  a  juteux. 
(What's  the  rank  of  adjutant  in  English?  I  think  I  have  never 
known.) 

I  order  a  fire  of  the  devil  to  begin  when  ours,  over  there, 
open  fire.  We  have  many  cartridges,  and  in  all  cases  we  can 
only  fight  to  the  end.  Here  we  are,  it  commences.  My  "bat- 
talion "  maintains  the  honour  of  the  army  of  General . 

Night  fell.  There  we  were,  surrounded.  Or  not  quite. 
The  Boches  had  evacuated  a  small  piece  of  isolated  trench,  where 


262         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

they  were  hard-pushed  by  ours.  God  knows  how  we  shoved  into 
it  and  got  in  the  earth.  Soon  came  the  black  night.  Nothing 
more  we  could  do,  so  we  all  rested  on  our  positions.  We  thirty 
took  turns  sleeping,  and  we  kept  very  quiet,  I  can  promise  you, 
not  being  sure  whether  we  were  at  home  or  across  the  way. 

Suddenly  Constant  whispers  to  me,  "They're  attacking!"  I 
look,  and  say,  "Yes,  they  are." 

With  my  glasses,  I  saw  an  army  advancing,  but  from  the 
far  plain.  The  points  of  their  helmets  were  clear  in  the  night. 
At  their  head,  a  tall  superior  officer,  though  I  could  not  count 
the  stripes  to  know  if  he  was  colonel  or  major.  He  accompanied 
a  stout  general  officer,  whose  stars  shone  at  moments. 

My  men  wished  to  fire.  I  thought  better  to  draw  the  enemy 
on  a  little.  We  were  bound  to  die;  but  our  men,  warned  by  us, 
could  do  better  execution  at  close  quarters. 

The  advance  continued.  What  was  the  most  impressive 
thing  was  the  absolute  silence.  Movements  of  officers  and  men 
could  be  observed,  but  no  sound  was  heard.  Our  men  always 
make  a  little  noise;  there's  the  click  of  metal  or  the  cry  of  trap- 
pings to  give  us  away. 

"An  example  of  what  perfect  discipline  means,"  I  whispered 
to  the  nearest  to  me. 

Yet  the  advance  did  not  progress.  I  concluded  I  must  see 
more.  Very  cautiously,  I  raised  myself. 

What  we  had  seen  was  the  waving  heads  of  plants;  the  tall 
colonel  was  a  slim  tree  afar;  the  general  was  a  bush  with  a  star 
behind  it,  half -hidden  by  leaves.  And  all  of  us  had  seen  alike; 
and  I  had  had  great  trouble  to  hold  my  men's  fire. 

The  Captain  says  I  spared  our  army  an  alarm  which  might 
have  precipitated  an  engagement  and  compromised  our  chances. 

But  with  all  that,  nothing  to  eat.  Luckily,  Berral,  always 
fureteur  by  nature,  manages  to  dfyoter  some  Boche  stores, 
hams,  etc.  Confitures,  too.  All  hidden  in  the  earth,  where 
he  found  them.  (If  you  didn't  know  what  it  is  to  dtgoter,  you 
know  now.) 

Three  days  of  this  life.  The  last,  nothing  to  eat  or  drink. 
I  have  to  calm  my  men;  they  enervate  themselves,  and  wish 
to  charge.  But  I  say  to  them,  "It  is  not  that  I  attach  to  your 
skins  or  mine  a  value  they  have  not.  But  don't  you  see,  im- 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         263 

beciles  that  you  are,  that  you  should  betray  all  the  secret  of  the 
comedy?  We  are  believed  to  be  hundreds."  Already,  we 
had  two  lost. 

In  the  morning  it  was  we  took  the  offensive.  Our  real  troops, 

I  mean.  The  patelin  of was  definitely  taken.  The  Germans, 

driven  back,  came  towards  us.  Now  was  our  time.  I  told 
the  men  we  must  try  to  cut  a  path  through.  Most  of  us  would 
stay  there,  but  those  who  fell  would  help  save  the  rest.  They 
all  shook  hands  with  me  to  say  good-bye,  and  I  ordered  the 
charge.  It  was  awful.  We  got  through  on  this  side  only  thir- 
teen. I  am  promoted  Sergeant;  Berral  and  Andresy,  and  four 
others  pass  corporals;  the  six  that  remain,  including  Constant, 
from  simple  soldiers,  become  first-class. 

But  it  makes  a  droll  effect  on  me,  to  know  the  Boches  in- 
stalled in  our 

Here  breaks  off  the  story.  Had  Paul  not  been  inter- 
rupted, fate  was  even  then  preparing  for  the  whole  diary 
an  end  so  complete  that  it  would  never  have  been  read 
by  any  who  had  a  right  to  it. 

Ill 

A  YOUNG  Frenchman,  having  many  unusual  points 
in  his  appearance,  attracted  much  attention  when  he 
entered  a  train  bound  for  Paris,  after  a  short  stop  at  a 
junction  connecting  with  the  north.  Clad  hah*  in  uniform 
and  otherwise  suggesting  a  tourist,  he  was  very  young, 
but  the  gold  stripe  proclaiming  him  a  sergeant  glittered 
on  a  cap  of  the  new  model;  from  chin  to  puttees,  which 
were  of  the  regulation  sort,  an  ordinary  macintosh  en- 
veloped him,  though  the  weather  was  fine.  His  face, 
pale  and  wasted,  had  an  almost  furtive  expression  about 
its  sunken  eyes.  Unencumbered  by  luggage,  having 
not  so  much  as  a  small  bag,  he  jumped  into  a  second-class 
compartment,  and  immediately  took  out  some  cigarettes, 
asking  two  ladies  if  he  might  smoke. 


264         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"Have  one?  They're  Dutch,"  he  said  to  a  man  in  the 
corner  next  to  him. 

The  man  suspiciously  exchanged  glances  with  his  vis-a- 
vis: both  were  middle-aged,  and  of  the  very  middle-class. 

"So  you  went  to  Holland  to  get  these?"  asked  the  man, 
surveying  the  Sergeant. 

"Yes!  Just  got  back.  Taken  prisoner  and  escaped. 
Was  a  fugitive  for  months.  Slow  work,  you  understand; 
any  mistake  meant  death.  Passed  through  Holland  to 
England.  Reached  France  last  night.  Tried  to  get  in- 
formation about  my  corps,  and  missed  the  train." 

Meanwhile,  the  man  had  decided  he  could  afford  a 
smoke  in  such  company.  He  took  one  of  the  proffered 
cigarettes;  so  did  his  vis-a-vis. 

The  Sergeant  went  on: 

"I'm  wearing  any  clothes  I  could  got.  Managed  to 
secure  a  cap  with  the  right  sort  of  stripe,  and  some  put- 
tees; then  this  to  hide  the  rest."  He  opened  the  macin- 
tosh, and  displayed  a  civilian  coat  and  shirt.  "  Anything, 
rather  than  be  without  a  uniform.  Don't  want  to  be 
mistaken  for  some  sort  of  an  ambushed  brother.  Rather 
be  thought  a  spy!  That  happened  to  me  once,  because 
I  had  no  papers.  But  I've  got  papers  now — a  Belgian 
passport."  He  took  it  out,  unfolded  it,  read  it  to  him- 
self, and  put  it  back  in  his  pocket-book. 

By  this  time  his  manner,  far  more  than  his  words, 
had  won  the  sympathy  and  the  confidence  of  those  seated 
near  him.  There  were  the  two  men  already  mentioned; 
a  little  lady  who  had  produced  her  knitting  and  murmured 
occasional  encouragement;  an  English-looking  civilian 
who  listened  attentively.  Another  lady,  however,  in  the 
far  corner,  and  a  tall  gentleman  evidently  her  husband — 
both  were  in  stiff,  intense  mourning,  and  so  uncongenial 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         265 

that  only  ties  of  /matrimony  could  have  held  them  within 
a  yard  of  each  other — showed  unity  of  views  in  their 
extreme  disapproval  of  the  entire  performance. 

"You  say  you  escaped  from  the  Germans?"  the  little 
lady  prompted. 

"Jumped  from  the  train,"  the  Sergeant  began  again, 
eagerly.  "I'd  Jbeen  put  with  others  in  a  cattle-car. 
The  officer  responsible  for  us  had  closed  the  doors,  of 
course.  But  as  soon  as  he  left,  the  soldiers  on  guard 
began  to  drink.  You  rarely  find  a  German  soldier  without 
his  beer,  but  you  never  find  him  without  his  schnapps. 
So  they  fell  to  drinking  schnapps.  It  was  very  hot,  and 
the  heat  and  the  schnapps  together  were  too  much  for 
them.  They  opened  the  door  of  our  car  just  a  little, 
to  get  air  to  breathe.  Then  I  knew  I  should  have  my 
chance.  I  must  say  for  them  that  they  were  good  sorts, 
apart  from  their  drunkenness.  Landwehr  soldiers;  not 
at  all  like  the  non-com  in  charge,  who  was  a  brute.  First 
thing  he  did  when  taking  me  prisoner  was  to  kick  me. 
One  of  our  lieutenants,  captured  with  me,  was  kicked  so 
as  to  be  badly  injured.  If  you  know  what  a  Prussian 
officer's  boot  is  like,  you  will  understand.  They  ought 
to  be  put  in  museums  as  curiosities,  those  boots. 

"I  watched  for  my  opportunity  when  the  soldiers  were 
very  drunk  and  not  noticing.  We'd  been  going  a  long 
while;  rate,  eighteen  or  twenty  miles  an  hour.  No  way 
for  me  to  see  where  we  were  nor  what  obstacles  lay  out 
there.  I  just  made  for  the  door,  jerked  it  wider,  and 
jumped  on  the  chance  of  landing  somewhere  and  not 
being  killed.  As  it  happened,  I  only  hurt  my  knee. 
Scrambling  to  my  feet,  I  limped  off,  to  get  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  railway.  When  I  dared  stop,  I  got  my  bearings 
and  started  westward." 


266         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"By  the  stars?"  murmured  the  little  knitter,  roman- 
tically. 

"  No,  by  my  compass.  Hidden  in  my  puttees,  it  escaped 
the  men  who  searched  me.  They  confiscated  everything 
else,  except  my  money.  When  I  left  for  the  front,  I 
didn't  want  to  make  much;  said  it  would  only  be  lost  if 
I  was  killed,  or  stolen  if  I  fell  prisoner.  But  my" — he 
hesitated — "my  family  insisted  that  I  must  take  a  large 
sum.  Well,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  I  shouldn't  be 
here  now.  Do  you  know  how  much  I  have  left  out  of  a 
thousand  francs?  Barely  forty!" 

"So  you  started  westward,"  prompted  the  English- 
looking  civilian. 

"Yes.  I  thought  if  our  troops  had  broken  through  the 
lines  I  might  reach  them,  somehow.  Not  much  to  gamble 
on,  but  as  good  as  anything  I  could  think  of.  Thinking 
wasn't  easy,  either.  I'd  had  a  touch  of  gas,  though  I 
was  a  mile  away  from  the  main  attack  where  men  were 
falling  and  dying  like  flies.  But  a  suggestion  of  the  fumes 
came  our  way,  and  rather  blinded  and  very  much  stupefied 
us  for  a  time,  though  we  weren't  really  ill.  It  was  a 
dreadful  sight,  far  off — that  heavy,  greenish  cloud,  close 
to  the  ground,  creeping  along  and  enveloping  the  trench 
as  a  cloth  slips  over  a  table's  edge;  it  rose  high,  too,  some 
eighty  feet,  I  should  judge,  turning  gradually  to  a  greenish 
yellow.  And  wasn't  it  strong!  Men  who  stooped  to 
pick  up  their  guns  after  dropping  them,  or  who  fell  at 
the  first  contact,  never  got  up  again.  We  had  masks, 
only  we  weren't  wearing  them;  some  of  us — it  was  my 
case,  for  instance — were  detailed  on  special  duties.  Then 
the  Germans  attacked  all  along  the  line.  First  thing  I 
knew  my  gun  lay  on  the  ground  and  several  bayonets 
were  against  my  chest.  What  could  I  do?" 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         267 

"There  were  no  after  effects?"  asked  the  English- 
looking  civilian. 

"Oh,  yes;  but  mild;  I  hadn't  been  really  gassed,  you 
know.  My  throat  got  chronically  inflamed,  and  my 
eyes  remained  watery  for  weeks.  But  that  was  nothing." 

"The  Boches  didn't  maltreat  you,  at  least?"  queried 
the  little  lady. 

"Only  kicked  me  to  make  me  be  good.  They  finished 
off  a  number  of  our  men  who  were  badly  wounded,  though ; 
so  as  to  send  only  the  sound  ones  back  to  work  for  them 
in  camps,  I  suppose.  I  was  lucky  enough  to  be  considered 
sound.  When  I  tumbled  out  of  that  train  and  hurt  my 
knee,  adding  that  to  a  bad  headache  and  what  I've  al- 
ready described,  I  felt  as  if  I  didn't  care  to  go  far.  Yet 
there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  I  didn't  dare  inquire 
my  way,  as  you  can  imagine;  so  I  was  bound  to  wander 
aside  and  in  loops. 

"When  daylight  came,  I  got  civilian  clothes.  Some 
good  people,  Belgians,  wanted  to  give  them  to  me,  but 
I  insisted  on  paying  five  francs.  More  to  make  sure  of 
their  good-will  than  anything  else.  Peasant  clothes  were 
what  I  had  chosen;  I  was  to  be  a  young  peasant  looking 
for  work. 

"I  had  to  learn  something  about  the  country,  and  also 
get  a  notion  of  the  accent  and  pick  up  a  vocabulary. 
So  as  to  avoid  attention,  I  used  to  hide  during  the  entire 
day,  and  start  walking  westward  as  soon  as  night  came. 
To  eat,  I  depended  mainly  on  what  I  could  find  in  the 
fields.  Afraid  to  go  about  buying  or  begging  food,  you 
see.  When  I  had  to  choose  between  showing  myself 
or  starving,  I  would  observe  people  before  approaching. 
My  story  about  the  young  peasant,  who  hadn't  been 
taken  for  the  army  because  his  heart  was  wrong,  went 


268         THE  GIFT  OF  PAtfL  CLERMONT 

down  with  everybody  I  spoke  to,  though  many  knew  better 
I'm  sure.  Still,  I  might  run  across  a  traitor;  and  German 
spies  and  agents  were  everywhere.  I  got  to  know  them 
by  their  ways  and  appearance,  so  I  avoided  any  I  spotted; 
but  one  might  have  come  up  suddenly. 

"Beet-root,  turnips,  carrots,  cabbage,  anything  that 
grew  was  good  enough.  Beet-root  was  the  best — it 
served  as  dessert.  Sometimes  I  went  hungry.  That 
didn't  matter  much;  the  awful  thing  was  when  I  had  to  go 
thirsty.  Beet-root  saved  me  several  times,  being  food 
and  drink;  the  European  bread-and-water  tree.  When 
vegetables  ran  short  in  a  field,  it  was  often  because  of  a 
battle  there  at  one  period  or  another.  Then  I  would 
search  for  tins  of  preserved  stuff.  Sometimes  I  would 
find  one  that  had  belonged  to  a  dead  soldier.  Not  nice 
to  think  of;  but  I  do  the  thinking  now.  Then,  I  was  hun- 
gry- 

"  Of  course  I  would  be  reduced  to  buying  food,  at  times. 
Once  I  bought  a  sausage;  I  was  carrying  it  in  a  bag  a 
peasant  had  given  me,  when  I  came  to  a  deserted  house 
guarded  by  a  lonely  little  dog.  The  thinnest  thing  I 
ever  saw.  He  must  have  been  for  days  and  days  without 
food.  You  ought  to  have  seen  him  eat  that  sausage! 
Does  me  good  to  remember  it.  He  wanted  to  follow  me, 
afterwards,  and  I  thought  he  and  I  would  make  a  good 
pair,  both  homeless  and  half-starved.  So  we  travelled 
on  together.  In  a  village  some  kind-looking  people 
asked  me  to  give  him  to  them.  He  wanted  to  stay  with 
me,  and  I'd  grown  attached  to  him;  but  I  knew  he  ought 
to  take  a  home  while  he  could  get  it.  So  I  went  on  alone." 

"Did  you  actually  see  our  trenches  from  the  German 
side?"  asked  the  little  knitter. 

"  Luckily  not.    Though  my  knee  got  worse,  my  general 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAtL  CLERMONT         269 

bruises  improved  as  days  went  by,  and  then  I  recovered 
something  of  my  senses.  Even  supposing  I  could  capture 
three  or  four  lines  of  German  trenches  from  behind,  which 
wasn't  really  likely,  you  know,  I  would  have  stood  a  poor 
chance,  marching  full  into  the  face  of  our  own  trenches, 
rigged  out  as  I  was.  That  game  was  no  good,  so  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  steer  northeast  and  get  out  by  way  of 
Holland,  if  I  took  a  year  to  do  it." 

"You  must  have  wandered  very  far  and  very  long!" 
sighed  the  little  lady.  The  clicking  of  her  needles  had 
never  ceased. 

"With  rheumatism  settling  in  my  knee,  too,"  he  said. 
"If  I  didn't  dare  buy  food,  you  can  imagine  I  didn't 
dare  get  medical  help.  Sleeping  out  in  the  open  when 
winter  comes,  without  even  a  blanket,  isn't  particularly 
good  for  the  constitution.  As  a  soldier,  I'd  slept  in 
clover — in  a  sleeping-sack.  But  this  was  a  case  of  bare 
ground." 

"What  were  you  afraid  of?"  asked  the  English-looking 
civilian.  "There  must  be  some  Belgians  left  in  Belgium — 
and  the  Germans  can't  be  everywhere  at  once." 

"If  they  were  anywhere  near,  I  was  in  danger  of  being 
denounced  as  a  soldier;  and  the  natives  might  have  taken 
me  for  a  spy.  When  I  couldn't  help  showing  myself, 
I  spent  whatever  money  was  necessary  for  hushing  people. 
Once,  in  a  village  where  there  were  German  soldiers,  a 
peasant  came  up  to  me.  He  said,  'Toi  soldat,'  I  denied 
it.  He  said  again,  'You're  a  soldier' — still  in  his  dialect. 
He  was  rough,  and  poor -looking;  two  starving  children 
with  him.  I  decided  I  must  bribe,  and  bribe  high. 
But  money  was  going  fast  at  this  game.  I  hesitated  an 
instant,  calculating  what  was  the  utmost  I  dared  give 
for  my  life  this  time.  All  of  a  sudden  he  drew  a  five- 


270         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

franc  piece  from  his  pocket  and  tried  to  give  it  to  me. 
'You're  a  soldier!'  he  said.  'You  don't  trust  me!  I'll 
help  you!'  He  spoke  funny,  broken  French: '  Toi  soldat! 
Toi  pas  confiance  en  moi!  Moi  aider  toi!'  I  told  him 
to  keep  the  money  for  his  children;  that  wasn't  what  I 
needed.  My  life  depended  on  avoiding  attention;  so  if 
he  really  wanted  to  help  me,  please  go  away." 

The  Sergeant  lighted  another  cigarette,  after  passing 
round  the  package;  this  time,  he  included  the  English- 
looking  civilian.  Smoking  silently  for  some  moments, 
he  rested  his  eyes  deliberately  on  each  of  those  who  had 
been  his  listeners.  It  was  a  swift,  sliding  glance,  which 
always  ended  far  to  one  side  or  on  the  floor. 

"You  notice?  Funny!  I  can't  look  a  single  one  of 
you  in  the  eye,"  he  said.  "Must  seem  compromising — 
shady  character,  and  all  that.  A  habit  I  got  into.  I 
knew  the  only  way  to  avoid  attention  was  by  never  looking 
at  anybody.  But  I  had  to  know  what  was  going  on 
about  me,  and  hear  what  people  said.  So  I  practiced 
never  looking  straight  at  anything,  and  seeing  a  little 
out  of  the  corner  of  my  eyes;  and  when  I  was  compelled 
to  look  straight,  I'd  glide  my  eyes  away  as  quick  as  I 
could.  Took  a  lot  of  practice  before  it  came  naturally. 
Now,  I  find  it  hard  to  look  straight — my  eyes  slip  away 
of  themselves!" 

"  Incidentally,  they  must  have  seen  a  great  deal,  all  the 
same,"  the  civilian  suggested. 

"Yes.  But  remember  I  had  to  avoid  places  where 
much  was  occurring.  Went  to  Brussels,  though;  my 
knee  had  to  be  seen  to,  I  couldn't  walk  any  more,  and 
that  seemed  the  safest  town  because  the  biggest.  Besides, 
at  Brussels  there's  a  hospital  run  by  French  civilians. 
The  surgeon  observed  me  closely.  '  Surely '  he  began . 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         271 

'  Yes,  but  don't  give  me  away ! '  I  whispered.  He'd  been 
regimental  surgeon  at  my  first  base  in  France!" 

"And  then?" 

"Then  I  got  better,  and  took  to  the  road  once  more. 
By  that  time  I'd  covered  quite  a  lot  of  country  and  got  a 
pretty  good  idea  of  the  way  things  were."  He  searched 
in  his  pocket  and  produced  a  note-book.  "I  wish  I 
could  have  taken  notes.  All  this  I  made  up  from  memory, 
in  Holland.  I  had  destroyed  whatever  papers  were 
left  to  me,  of  course,  so  the  Germans  shouldn't  be  able 
to  identify  me  if  I  got  caught.  My  military  livret  had 
disappeared  rather  peculiarly.  The  Germans  thought 
I  was  a  second  lieutenant  because  the  only  gold  braid 
I'd  been  able  to  get  was  narrow  instead  of  broad;  so  they 
were  treating  me  as  an  officer,  and  you  may  be  sure  I 
didn't  undeceive  them.  But  my  official  papers  gave  me 
away,  and  the  sous-off'  who  held  them  went  to  correct 
the  mistake.  By  the  greatest  luck,  one  of  our  shells 
came  along  and  mixed  him  all  up  with  what  remained 
of  my  property!" 

"Did  you  witness  any  atrocities?"  asked  the  little 
knitter  in  an  awed  tone.  Somehow,  atrocities  always 
seem  to  fascinate  little  knitters  in  trains. 

"I  have  a  good  deal  of  evidence  here;  they  have  been 
exaggerated  by  report,  you  know,  but  they  were  real. 
My  regimental  doctor  had  dealt  with  one  particularly 
horrible  case,  there  in  Brussels — a  baby  nine  months  old, 
with  both  hands  cut  off  at  the  wrist  and  both  feet  at  the 
ankle.  The  mother  asked  the  doctor  if  it  wouldn't  be  bet- 
ter to  chloroform  it  before  it  grew  old  enough  to  know." 

There  was  a  silence.     He  broke  it  himself: 

"Those  weren't  the  things  I  wanted  to  learn.  I'm  a 
soldier,  and  I  was  after  military  things." 


272         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

He  turned  the  pages  of  his  note-book,  while  the  train 
rolled  on.  No  one  spoke.  Presently  he  began  again: 

"I  was  taken  for  a  spy — but  luckily  I  was  safe,  then. 
I  managed  to  slip  across  the  frontier  to  Holland,  and 
turned  up  at  a  Belgian  consulate  to  ask  for  a  passport. 
I  hadn't  a  single  paper  to  identify  me.  But  my  trouble 
didn't  come  there. 

"The  consul  said,  'What's  your  nationality?'  I  an- 
swered, 'French.'  He  said,  'Where  do  you  want  to  go?' 
I  answered,  'England.'  He  said,  'What  do  you  want  to 
do  there?'  'Work,' I  said.  Then  he  asked  me,  answering 
the  question  himself,  'Not  to  be  a  soldier?  No!'  That 
was  his  formula. 

"Several  young  Belgians  came  in  who  had  crossed 
the  frontier  together,  although  it's  harder  and  harder  to 
do.  They  all  wanted  to  go  to  England  to  'work,'  and  of 
each  one  he  asked,  answering  himself,  '  Not  to  be  a  soldier? 
No!'  Being  the  consul  of  an  allied  power,  he  could  give 
me  a  passport  as  a  Frenchman;  and  so  he  did,  though  it's 
a  Belgian  passport.  That  being  done  without  difficulty, 
I  started  off  feeling  as  if  I  were  almost  home  again. 

"But  the  British  consul  at  Rotterdam  wasn't  so  easy. 
Asked  me  a  lot  of  questions,  trying  to  trip  me  up.  Wanted 
to  know  if  I  spoke  German — and  I  do,  six  words!  Con- 
sidered my  knowledge  of  English  very  compromising. 
Finally  told  me  I  might  leave,  but  not  that  day — the 
next.  If  he  had  had  me  arrested  that  night,  I  shouldn't 
have  been  a  bit  surprised.  But  I  suppose  he  couldn't 
have  taken  me  up  in  a  neutral  country,  and  he  had  a 
better  scheme.  I  left  next  day,  quite  happy, — and  found 
myself  the  object  of  especial  and  not  flattering  attentions 
at  Folkestone.  My  description,  with  a  statement  of  my 
case,  had  been  sent  on  in  advance." 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         273 

"But  you  got  through  all  right?"  questioned  the 
civilian. 

"  Rather,  or  I  shouldn't  be  here,"  the  other  said  simply. 

By  a  happy  inspiration,  the  little  knitter  asked  what 
the  civilian  had  evidently  been  about  to  ask  next.  It 
came  more  gracefully  from  her. 

"How  did  you  get  across  the  frontier  to  Holland? 
You  forgot  to  tell  us." 

"No.  I  didn't  forget."  The  Sergeant  paused  and 
reflected  while  putting  away  his  note-book.  "But  that's 
one  of  the  things  I  can't  talk  about,  much.  Shouldn't 
like  to  get  any  of  my  Belgian  friends  into  trouble,  you 
understand." 

"Oh!    So  they  managed  it  for  you?" 

"It  began  with  the  father  of  the  starving  children.  He 
followed  me  without  my  knowing  it,  and  crept  up  that 
night  as  I  lay  under  a  bush.  I'm  not  ashamed  to  say  I 
was  frightened  when  he  touched  me.  Thought  myself 
caught,  you  know.  And  it  seemed  hard,  after  so  many 
months  and  efforts !  I  wouldn't  have  minded  being  killed 
in  battle,  or  when  jumping  from  the  train,  or  else  being 
caught  and  shot  within  a  few  weeks.  At  all  events  I 
didn't  mind  the  idea  of  it.  But  to  be  bagged  as  I  slept 
under  a  bush,  after  months  and  months  of  tramping  and 
dodging  and  starving — I  hated  the  idea  of  dying  then! 
But  he  whispered:  ' Soldat — moi  ami/' 

"I  recognised  his  voice  and  his  idiom.  He  went  on  to 
tell  me  that  he  would  help  me  to  hide  for  some  days,  and 
would  get  in  touch  with  his  circle  of  friends.  After  I'd 
been  in  his  cellar  several  days,  he  said  all  was  ready 
and  lent  me  his  own  passport  to  go  as  far  as  the  next  town. 
Meant  death  for  him  as  well  as  for  myself  if  I'd  been 
caught.  I  hid  again,  with  the  help  of  new  friends,  in 


274         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

this  town,  and  went  on  once  more  with  another  borrowed 
passport.  This  continued  until  I  reached  the  proper 
point  near  the  frontier.  It  seemed  to  be  a  whole  system, 
very  perfect,  working  without  a  flaw." 

"  But  I  thought  the  frontier  bristled  with  sentinels  and 
was  a  maze  of  wires,"  the  civilian  ventured. 

"Both  terms  are  mild,  considering.  But  if  you've 
practiced  skulking  in  fields  and  under  hedges  for  a  good 
many  months,  you  may  creep  very  close  to  a  sentinel, 
and  can  lie  like  dead  for  quite  a  few  hours — knowing  you 
will  be  dead  sure  enough  if  you're  seen.  As  for  their 
wires  and  electricity  and  the  rest,  rubber  gloves  sometimes 
help.  It's  just  possible,  too,  that  special  points  of  the 
frontier  must  be  chosen,  because  of  the  nature  of  their 
soil.  But  that's  a  problem  I  shall  let  you  work  out  for 
yourself." 

The  train  halted  abruptly.  A  guard  passed  by  the 
windows,  ordering  all  passengers  to  alight.  The  sedate 
and  reserved  lady  and  gentleman  seized  upon  their 
bags  and  fled,  after  darting  alarmed  glances  at  the  com- 
promising sergeant.  The  little  lady  and  the  English- 
looking  civilian  pluckily  remained  with  him.  The  other 
travellers  had  already  left  the  train,  at  a  previous  station. 

"  I  have  been  very  much  interested  in  what  you  had  to 
say,"  the  civilian  remarked. 

The  Sergeant  laughed: 

"Why,  I  have  simply  rattled  on  about  anything  that 
passed  through  my  mind!  After  so  many  months  of 
either  silence  or  discretion,  you  can't  imagine  what  it 
means  to  be  able  to  turn  one's  tongue  loose  among  one's 
own  people.  Even  in  England  I  had  to  be  rather  careful, 
you  know;  couldn't  make  friends  very  well,  because  my 
papers  weren't  exactly  conventional,  and  I  didn't  know 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         275 

a  soul  in  the  whole  country  who  could  identify  me.  And 
then  my  note-book  might  have  looked  queer,  among 
strangers." 

"That  must  be  full  of  interesting  things,"  the  civilian 
said  meditatively. 

The  Sergeant,  equally  meditative  but  with  eyes  fixed 
very  positively  on  distant  objects,  did  not  appear  to  have 
heard. 

"Might  I  see  that  note-book?"  the  civilian  asked. 

"Oh,  impossible!"  the  Sergeant  exclaimed.  "This 
information  is  for  my  government,  if  it  can  be  of  any 
use." 

The  passengers  ahead,  having  hesitated  in  confusion  for 
some  minutes,  were  now  streaming  out  of  the  station. 
Guards  instructed  them  to  follow  the  country  road  to 
their  right. 

"Why  did  they  stop  us?  What  are  they  going  to  do 
to  us?"  the  little  lady  inquired  nervously.  But  she  kept 
close  to  the  Sergeant. 

"Only  a  collision  beyond  that  bridge  you  see  in  the 
distance.  Another  train  is  waiting  for  us  there.  Both 
tracks  are  blocked." 

"How  do  you  know?"  demanded  the  civilian. 

"Because  I  have  learned  to  see  without  looking  and 
hear  without  listening,"  the  Sergeant  answered  quietly. 

The  three  walked  on  together  for  nearly  half  a  mile. 
It  appeared  that  a  collision  had  blocked  one  track;  a  crane 
had  been  brought  to  clear  this,  and  had  been  dropped 
across  the  second  track  by  inexperienced  workmen  replac- 
ing their  mobilised  brothers.  The  train  in  waiting  was 
already  filled  with  passengers  from  both  the  collided  trains. 
The  Sergeant  helped  several  ladies  into  a  first-class  com- 
partment before  getting  in  himself;  the  civilian  followed. 


276         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

That  they  were  crowded,  none  could  have  denied.  But 
none  complained  save  an  old  gentleman  in  an  overcoat, 
a  muffler,  a  sweater,  and  wristlets,  holding  a  paper-backed 
novel  in  one  hand  and  a  paper-knife  in  the  other;  he  was 
furthermore  provided  with  a  foot-warmer.  He  darted 
furious  glances  from  his  corner,  and  grumbled  inter- 
mittently for  four  hours  about  people  who  forced  them- 
selves into  other  people's  compartments.  Several  times 
he  repeated  that  such  was  war,  that  prior  to  the  infamous 
aggression  of  which  France  had  been  victim  no  one  would 
have  dared  behave  so,  and  that  the  Germans  must  be  made 
to  pay  heavily  for  this  and  other  hardships. 

Conversation  was  impossible  in  such  an  atmosphere. 
The  little  lady  knitted  with  each  elbow  in  the  stomach  of  a 
neighbour;  the  Sergeant,  gazing  through  the  window  at 
the  landscape,  seemed  completely  happy;  and  the  English- 
looking  civilian,  squeezed  into  a  tiny  place  where  the  arm 
of  a  seat  ought  to  have  been,  thought  profoundly. 

They  reached  Paris.  The  little  lady  shook  hands  with 
the  Sergeant  and  soulfully  wished  him  more  fighting  and 
endless  good-fortune.  The  civilian  lingered. 

"May  I  walk  a  little  way  with  you,  M.  Clermont?"  he 
asked,  as  they  stood  on  the  platform. 

Paul  turned,  thoroughly  amazed. 

"I  should  like  to  know,  first,  who  you  are  and  how  you 
know  me?" 

The  other  laughed : 

"If  your  name  is  a  confidential  matter,  you  should  not 
wave  your  passport  about  so  freely.  I  have  had  to  become 
something  of  an  observer,  also,  by  force  of  circumstances. 
I  am  an  American  war  correspondent."  He  took  out  a 
card. 

"A  war  correspondent — in  trains?" 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         277 

"As  good  a  place  as  another,  when  we  can't  be  at  the 
front.  I  have  been  wondering  if  you  would  tell  me  a  little 
more.  There's  that  note-book;  perhaps  you  would  have 
no  objection " 

"Or  perhaps  I  would !"  said  Paul. 

"Then  won't  you,  at  least,  have  a  drink  with  me,  on  the 
Boulevard?  I  owe  you  something  for  the  conversation  we 
have  already  had." 

Paul  had  been  looking  about  him,  as  if  expecting  some- 
body; they  had  passed  the  gates,  and  reached  the  station 
restaurant. 

"We  might  stop  here,  a  moment,"  he  said.  "A  cup  of 
tea  would  taste  good  to  me,  especially  if  a  slice  of  bread 
went  with  it.  The  last  time  I  ate  was  eleven  hours  ago." 

"I  should  say  you  needed  some  wine  to  brace  you  up; 
especially  after  such  experiences,"  the  journalist  urged. 

"Oh,  thanks — we're  not  supposed  to  drink!" 

"Only  a  little  good  wine — and  at  this  hour "  the 

tempter  insisted. 

"I'm  not  quite  sure  about  the  regulations,"  said  Paul, 
"  but  our  tastes  grow  very  simple.  This  is  really  good,  to 
our  thinking."  He  tapped  the  tea-pot.  "No  cigars, 
thank  you;  plain  cigarettes  do  nicely.  You  don't  know 
how  'the  French  soldier  has  changed.  It's  no  longer  a 
man's  idea  of  happiness  to  get  to  a  cafe  and  spend  hours 
sipping  a  drink  or  playing  cards  or  dominoes;  he  wants  to 
get  home,  or  else  to  go  to  a  good  old-fashioned  play  or  the 
cinema.  More  fun  than  excesses  ever  used  to  be.  Those 
of  us  who  haven't  died  have  become  a  healthy,  reasonable 
race;  class  prejudice  has  died  down,  and  so  have  political 
and  religious  animosities;  there  aren't  any  quarrels  or 
discussions  or  jealousies  in  the  trenches " 

"Not  in  the  trenches,"  repeated  the  journalist. 


278         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"No,"  Paul  went  on,  so  earnestly  that  he  missed  the 
point.  "It's  astonishing  to  note  how  well  the  aristocrat 
and  the  workman,  the  priest  and  the  teacher,  and  all  that, 
can  agree,  when  working  at  the  same  job.  The  blacksmith 
and  the  bricklayer  no  longer  scorn  educated  men,  and  the 
gentleman  has  no  occasion  to  patronise  the  sweat  of  other 
people's  brows." 

"War  promoting  harmony — still  in  the  trenches.  How 
long  do  you  expect  this  to  last?" 

"Don't  know;  the  wonderful  thing  is  that  it  should  be 
here  at  all.  Let's  be  content  with  that.  Abstinence  has 
had  much  to  do  with  this — which  is  another  point  gained. 
Men  began  by  finding  they  were  less  fit  after  drinking 
alcohol;  then  they  ceased  to  care  for  the  stuff.  As  for  our 
so-called  'hygienic  drinks' — light  red  or  white  wine — we 
get  enough  of  that,  and  sour  enough,  to  cure  us  completely! 
They  tried  sending  water  in  barrels,  but  it  had  to  be  dosed 
first,  to  kill  the  germs  or  something.  Whew!  Smelt  like 
an  apothecary's  shop.  We  said  we  would  wait  till  we 
got  to  the  hospital  for  our  dose  of  disinfectants,  thank 


you!' 

The  journalist  was  probably  preparing  another  charge  at 
the  note-book,  when  Paul  suddenly  yelled  out  and  fled,  up- 
setting a  chair  and  breaking  a  glass.  For  I  had  just  come 
up,  his  telegram  to  me  having  suffered  delays  and  my  jour- 
ney having  added  still  more. 

We  were  together  for  some  days,  while  his  "military 
situation"  was  being  straightened  out;  during  which  time 
he  told  me  of  his  wanderings.  But  I  must  confess  that  I 
have  drawn  freely,  in  editing  the  present  chapter,  upon  a 
magazine  article  recently  sent  to  Paul,  in  my  care,  by  the 
war  correspondent  to  whom  he  had  "given  no  informa- 
tion," as  he  solemnly  assured  me  at  the  time. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         279 

IV 

A  WAVE  of  intense  unrest  swept  over  the  plain  and  up  the 
hill  which  guarded  it  to  the  south.  Men  on  duty  in  the 
trenches  fingered  their  guns  lovingly;  men  stationed  above 
in  fortresses  of  earth  and  logs  twitched  nervously.  "It's 
coming!"  they  whispered.  "God  knows  it's  taken  long 
enough.  But  now,  it's  coming!" 

Ended,  the  patient  wait  of  ceaseless  privation  and 
frequent  suffering;  ended,  the  heart-racking  sense  that, 
though  strong,  they  were  powerless ;  ended,  the  humiliating 
thought  that,  whereas  their  blood  had  been  freely  shed  and 
their  land  was  still  partly  held,  they  were  riveted  to  idle- 
ness. At  last,  an  offensive  was  at  hand  in  their  region,  a 
broad  advance  so  often  heralded  and  invariably  delayed,  an 
action  such  as  others  had  tried  but  they  had  been  denied. 
To  gain  a  few  yards,  or  else  to  cling  to  what  they  defended, 
had  been  a  Herculean  effort;  and  had  yet  been  long  and 
vain  as  the  toil  of  Sisyphus.  But  what  matter  now — now 
that  their  real  hour  had  come ! 

How  had  they  learned  of  it?  No  officer  had  taken  them 
into  the  secret.  Had  they  read  in  the  looks  of  their  chiefs, 
more  preoccupied  than  usual,  and  even  kinder  than  before? 
Had  the  God  whom  they  invoked  in  the  simple  faith  and 
manly  courage  of  their  soldier-hearts,  after  feigning  to  ig- 
nore Him  during  days  of  pleasure,  whispered  to  them  that 
many  would  soon  be  in  another  sphere  and  some  be 
acclaimed  heroes  in  their  own?  Perhaps;  but  also  they 
had  understood  aright  the  voices  roaring  night  and  day, 
material  voices  whose  cords  were  of  steel  and  whose  breath 
was  of  flame,  and  whose  argument  burst  to  rend,  kill, 
scatter.  For  a  night  and  a  day,  and  again  a  night  and  a 
day,  deafening,  all-pervading,  their  roar  had  come  sharp, 


280         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

swift,  sure  as  the  crack  of  machine-guns — though  each 
cried  alone,  and  was  of  field  or  siege  caliber.  Once,  for  a 
few  instants,  there  had  been  a  break.  Men  had  stirred 
anxiously,  had  raised  their  hands  to  their  heads,  had 
ventured  glances  above  the  trench  at  peril  of  their  lives. 
Then  the  cracking,  the  roaring,  the  shaking  came  once  more 
with  increased  fury;  the  men  subsided,  bewildered  and 
happy,  to  watch  the  puffs  of  cloud  by  day,  the  tongues  of 
fire  by  night. 

"On  all  the  line,"  they  said.  " Means  a  general  attack," 
they  said.  "Yes,  this  tune  it's  really  coming." 

"For  those  two  days  and  nights,  the  enemy  had  not 
answered,  or  only  in  a  desultory  sort  of  way.  We  weren't 
positive  whether  this  meant  shortness  of  ammunition,  or 
else  waiting  to  send  a  whirlwind  bombardment  which 
might  leave  nothing  of  us." 

Paul  spoke  to  me  from  his  bed  at  the  Marquise  de 
Vervillers's  ambulance  in  Paris.  Several  machine-gun 
bullets  had  struck  his  right  arm,  above  the  elbow,  doing 
havoc  among  the  muscles  but  missing  the  bone. 

"I  had  been  on  duty  for  more  than  twenty-four  hours, 
either  because  it  was  my  turn  or  because  I  wanted  to  be 
about,"  he  continued.  "Then,  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
third  day,  I  went  into  one  of  our  bomb-proofs  to  get  some 
sleep.  But  how  could  it  have  been  possible?  Not  that 
I  minded  the  racket.  We're  used  to  that.  The  thing  was 
that  any  moment  might  bring  the  enemy's  reply,  or  the 
order  to  get  ready  for  our  charge. 

"A  general  attack!  Think  what  that  meant  to  us.  I 
grow  excited  now,  just  remembering  the  way  I  felt.  The 
best  of  all  our  skirmishes,  taken  and  put  together  in  a  row, 
wouldn't  represent  as  much  as  the  first  dash  we  should 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         281 

make.  No;  I  couldn't  sleep.  So  I  went  out  and  looked 
through  a  loop-hole. 

"The  whole  landscape  had  changed.  Already  seamed 
with  trenches,  the  plain  was  now  ripped  and  wrenched  by 
bombs  and  mines  until  it  was  like  a  vast,  whitish  steppe. 
Where  there  had  been  clumps  of  trees,  I  saw  only  shreds 
of  trunks;  where  there  had  been  trenches  I  saw  only  con- 
fusion or  else  gaping,  barren  holes.  We  had  been  re- 
building, daily,  our  first-and  second-line  trenches,  levelled 
in  long  spaces  by  shells  or  torpedoes;  but  of  late  we  hadn't 
done  more  than  pile  up  sacks  of  earth  against  the  parapets. 
The  Germans  were  making  no  apparent  effort  to  repair  the 
damage  to  their  lines.  The  only  spot  on  the  landscape 
which  an  unmilitary  eye  could  have  recognised  was  the 
wreck  of  that  farmhouse  to  which  Berral  had  gone  for 
flowers.  Repeated  engagements,  and  our  whining  of  the 
hamlet  of (now  completely  razed),  had  cut  off  the  Ger- 
mans from  access  to  it.  We  didn't  occupy  it,  because  the 
position  was  so  exposed,  but  we  could  reach  it  as  we  pleased. 
Though  bombs  and  small  shells  had  struck  it,  the  ruin  still 
held  together.  We  spared  what  was  left,  because  it  might 
be  of  use  for  observations  when  we  advanced;  the  Boches 
neglected  it  apparently  from  indifference.  So,  there  was 
that  one  small  ruin  of  a  house,  in  that  wide  ruin  of  a  plain. 
Talk  of  dramatic  effects !  No  theatre,  with  all  the  artifices 
at  its  command,  ever  presented  such  a  tragic  spectacle  as 
that  death-like  plain  across  which  death  continued  to 
howl. 

"And  still,  no  answer  to  our  fire;  or  no  answer  worth 
mentioning.  We  could  only  listen  to  our  shells  and  vibrate 
with  the  earth,  while  our  impatience  had  to  be  bridled  on 
the  very  edge  of  our  effort  of  efforts." 

The  weather,  which  had  been  clear,  changed  in  the 


282         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

afternoon;  presently  drops  fell.  Apprehension  filled  the 
men  lest  the  attack  be  postponed,  should  rain  set  in.  Their 
exasperation  reached  a  climax  rendering  them  capable  of 
breaking  from  the  trenches  on  their  own  initiative. 

"I  found  Berral  and  his  group,  including  Constant,  in 
that  frame  of  mind.  They  muttered:  'If  we  could  move 
down  to  the  first  line,  we  should  know  what  to  do.'  'What- 
ever the  weather,  your  energies  won't  be  wasted — provided 
you  behave  yourselves,'  I  told  them.  They  had  to  take 
my  word  for  it,  and  luckily  they  did.  What  I  couldn't 
say  frankly  until  the  officers  had  spoken,  was  that  we  had 
gone  so  far  we  couldn't  have  stopped. 

"By  the  precision  of  our  aim,  I  knew  we  must  have 
wrought  havoc  in  the  German  mazes,  using  shrapnel  first 
to  chop  the  wire  and  then  heavy  shells  to  bury  the  whole; 
and  with  my  glasses  I  could  see  many  of  their  earth-forts 
and  shelters;  yards  deep,  ripped  up  as  if  they  had  been  tin 
roofs.  We  were  using  the  new  big  shells,  adjusted  to 
explode  only  after  sinking  eight  or  nine  feet,  so  that  de- 
fences and  defenders  were  bound  to  go  all  together.  In 
our  region  alone,  we  sent  seventy-five  thousand  shells  a 
day  for  those  three  days;  and  it  must  have  been  so  along  the 
whole  line.  We  had  ammunition  in  any  quantity;  large 
stores  of  provisions  and  supplies  of  water  were  ready  to  be 
brought  forward  as  soon  as  we  started  on  the  rush;  we  had 
dug  parallels  for  the  advance  of  reinforcements,  and  sapped 
out  mines  far  beyond  what  might  have  been  thought 
possible — a  feat  of  engineering!  Of  course  we  had  to  ad- 
vance while  we  could.  Observation  posts  had  already 
reported  the  enemy's  communications  as  cut  off  by  our 
cross-fire:  for  two  days  and  a  half  no  food  had  reached 
them  at  some  points,  and  it  was  probable  ammunition  also 
would  fail  them.  But  there  was  even  more.  As  night 


THE  GIFT  OP  PAUL  CLERMONT          283 

closed  down,  standing  on  the  French  side  of  our  hill,  I  saw 
our  fresh  troops  being  brought  up  from  the  rear,  by  motors. 
Where  trenches  were  available,  men  slipped  into  them; 
thousands  were  grouped  in  the  huge  holes  torn  by  German 
mines  and  shells;  others  lay  flat  on  the  ground,  in  the  rain. 
Thousands,  thousands,  thousands  of  them — and  all  to 
follow  us !  For  we,  who  had  borne  the  brunt  of  the  months 
of  waiting  there,  were  to  have  the  honour  of  going  first. 
No,  I  had  no  fear  of  the  attack  being  postponed,  though 
I  couldn't  tell  our  boys  all  I  had  learned  and  seen. 

"At  dark,  rain  began  to  fall  fast  and  heavy.  The 
ground,  soggy  from  previous  rains,  couldn't  absorb  any 
more,  though  these  last  days  had  been  dry.  The  trenches 
ran  with  water;  the  platforms  of  twigs  beneath  our  feet 
would  have  floated  like  rafts  if  we  hadn't  been  there  to 
hold  them  down.  But  what  matter?  We  were  worked  up 
to  so  high  a  pitch  that  we  couldn't  have  minded  anything — 
except  perhaps  failure. 

"Captain  de  Vervillers  came  to  us:  'My  children,  it's 
for  to-morrow  morning.'  You  ought  to  have  heard  the 
chorus  of — breaths!  For  we  couldn't  cheer.  No  yell  of 
enthusiasm,  no  clamour  of  praise,  was  ever  more  eloquent 
than  those  united  breaths.  It  seemed  to  me  I  could  hear 
the  throb  of  heart-beats  all  round  me.  I  may  have  heard 
only  my  own,  making  enough  noise  for  scores." 

The  Captain  went  on  to  explain  the  plan  of  battle.  At  a 
concerted  moment,  they  were  to  leap  out  and  charge  due 
north.  Behind  the  first  trench,  the  regiment  was  to  be 
drawn  up  in  the  night,  a  formation  of  three  columns  con- 
sisting of  a  battalion  each,  separated  by  machine-guns  and 
flanked  by  them.  Each  battalion-column  was  subdivided 
into  smaller  columns,  representing  companies,  drawn  up 
four  deep.  Behind  them,  reinforcements  would  wait 


284         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

ready  to  pour  forward  through  communication  trenches, 
unexposed  until  the  moment  they,  too,  were  to  charge. 

Paul  continued: 

"The  Germans  had  got  wind  that  we  planned  something, 
long  before  our  preparation  started.  The  first  notion  we 
got  of  what  lay  ahead  came  from  them.  It  was  now  two 
weeks  since  they  had  begun  to  poke  fun  at  us,  wiggling  the 
barrels  of  their  guns  over  the  tops  of  their  defences,  and 
sometimes  putting  rag  dolls  on  the  ends.  The  wind  would 
bring  us  snatches  from  the  chorus  of  'Viens,  Poupoule.' 
They  thought  we  wouldn't  dare  try.  Just  wouldn't  we! 
But  you  can  fancy  the  sort  of  exasperation  into  which 
they  threw  our  men.  No  better  turn  could  have  been 
done  to  us.  For  it  wasn't  the  sort  of  emotion  which  wears 
off.  Our  ranks  don't  consist  of  the  old  type  of  happy-go- 
lucky  jokers,  of  je-m  'en-fichistes,  and  we  haven't  got  only 
men  who  plainly  and  simply  do  their  duty.  No!  There's 
more  underlying  the  character  of  the  French  soldier  as  war 
has  shaped  him.  He  is  grave,  intrepid,  resolute  as  a  Ro- 
man legionary.  You  know  what  a  general,  and  a  cavalry 
general  at  that,  said  of  the  French  infantryman  of  to-day : 
'  He  deserves  that  we  should  go  down  on  our  knees  before 
him' — 'II  est  a  se  mettre  d.  genoux  devant!" 

The  Colonel  came  to  assure  himself  that  the  orders  were 
understood;  the  regiment  was  moved  down  to  the  place  it 
should  occupy. 

In  its  very  terror,  the  night  was  of  marvellous  beauty. 
Flares  of  cannon  or  of  bursting  shell  pierced  at  every  mo- 
ment the  sheets  of  rain,  whose  mass,  with  the  resilient 
density  of  fluid,  closed  in  where  solidity  would  have  been 
rent  to  irretrievable  fragments.  Long  fingers  of  flash- 
light, accusing,  menacing,  would  stroke  the  heavens  and 
cleave  the  elements,  to  break  upon  the  earth,  hungry  after 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         285 

morsels  that  bided  annihilation.  The  horizon  was  the 
rim  of  a  vast  brazier  turning  the  most  baleful  of  nights  into 
the  most  appalling  of  days.  Ever  and  anon,  bursting  the 
rhythmic  flash  of  lights,  and  roar  of  explosions,  and 
tremblings  of  earth  which  ceased  not  for  a  second,  a 
mightier  flare,  a  mightier  thunder,  a  mightier  convulsion  of 
the  land's  foundations,  would  mark  a  mine  set  off,  an  area 
of  soil  and  wood,  a  mass  of  human  atoms  hurled  into  the 
water-charged  air,  amid  whirls  of  party-coloured  flame, 
joy-fires  of  Hades. 

Held  by  the  fascination  of  the  scene,  awed  by  the 
responsibility  in  which  he  must  share,  absorbing  every 
impression  which  his  physical  nature  might  yet  receive, 
Paul  lay  on  the  saturated  earth  like  his  comrades,  but 
slightly  apart  from  them  and  not  seeking  sleep. 

Amid  the  flashes  of  gun,  shell,  fuse,  mine,  searchlight, 
which  starred  and  streaked  the  earth's  surface,  as  a  sky 
might  appear  if  all  its  bodies  burst  suddenly  into  showers 
of  meteors,  he  observed  a  tiny  light  quite  near.  Not  an 
aeroplane  light.  Its  steadiness  first  drew  his  attention, 
then  its  modesty  retained  him.  Or  perhaps  the  modesty 
was  what  awoke  the  first  conscious  appeal:  as  a  man  may 
heed  a  whisper  when  a  crowd's  yelling  has  dulled  his  ears 
to  mere  volume  of  sound.  Among  these  thousands  of 
lights,  this  alone  shone  modestly,  this  alone  failed  to  move. 
Then  it  did  move,  though  its  power  was  not  increased. 
The  movement  was  slow;  up  and  down,  twice. 

Paul  watched  steadily.  It  was  fixed,  once  more.  His 
eyes  had  deceived  him,  perhaps. 

But  suppose  they  had?  Suppose  the  light  were  station- 
ary? Why  should  it  be  there,  quiet  and  unassuming 
among  all  these  swift,  blatant  bursts?  Whence  could  it 
come,  and  what  might  it  mean? 


286         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

As  he  put  the  last  question  to  himself,  it  again  moved. 
Not  up  and  down :  from  left  to  right — twice. 

Understanding  came  so  quickly  that  the  report  of  his 
rifle  cracked  before  the  thought  was  finished.  At  once,  the 
light  vanished. 

He  had  fired  into  the  ground-floor  window  of  the  ruined 
farmhouse. 

The  light  and  the  shot  passed  unperceived  by 
Paul's  neighbours.  He  waited.  Some  minutes  went  by, 
neither  in  silence  nor  in  blackness,  surely,  yet  they 
seemed  dark  and  still  to  Paul,  who  thought  only  of  the 
light. 

Again  it  came — but  higher-pitched.  Again  the  move- 
ment, up  and  down,  twice;  again  the  pause;  and  again, 
left  to  right,  twice.  Then  again  it  vanished:  for  Paul 
had  fired  into  the  window  of  what  had  been  an  upper 
storey. 

A  hand  rested  on  his  left  arm,  a  voice  breathed: 

"It's  Berral,  Sergeant.  There's  been  a  light  be- 
hind." 

"Before,  you  mean,"  Paul  corrected. 

"No.  Behind.  In  a  tree.  I  fired  into  it,  and  it  dis- 
appeared." 

"Behind!    An  answer,  then." 

"A  signal,  at  all  events,"  Berral  went  on.  Evidently, 
he  knew  nothing  of  what  had  occurred  at  the  farmhouse. 
"I  crept  close,  but  couldn't  find  trace  of  anybody.  So  I 
went  towards  the  barbed  wire." 

"If  you  had  been  shot  by  a  sentinel,  you  would  have  had 
no  one  to  thank  but  yourself.  This  is  no  night  for  in- 
dividual experiments." 

"It's  as  good  a  night  as  another  for  catching  a 
spy,  Sergeant.  I'm  going  back,  and  I  want  you  with 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT     .     287 

me.  I  saw  a  shadow  and  fired,  but  missed.  When  that 
shadow  comes  back,  there  must  be  two  of  us  to  catch 
him." 

"Krauss?"  Paul  exclaimed. 

"That's  what  I  think." 

"Our  lieutenant's  orderly,  and  an  Alsatian!"  Paul 
protested. 

"Yes;  if  he  is  an  Alsatian,"  Berral  grumbled.  "What 
do  we  know  about  him?  How  can  we  tell  where  he  came 
from?  Why  shouldn't  he  have  been  dropped  in  our  lines 
some  months  ago  by  a  Boche  aeroplane?" 

It  was  true  that  little  or  nothing  had  been  ascertained 
about  this  supposed  Alsatian,  plausible  of  speech,  varied  in 
accomplishments,  and  fearless  to  foolhardiness.  He  had 
claimed  to  be  a  refugee  from  a  village  of  the  region,  but 
boasted  of  Alsatian  birth;  he  had  produced  papers  con- 
firming his  statements,  and  had  begged  for  permission  to 
enlist  and  avenge  his  unhappy  country;  he  had  been  taken 
as  orderly  by  Lieutenant  de  Falonges  because  of  his 
abilities  and  resourcefulness. 

Paul  and  Berral  slipped  along  the  ground,  were  successful 
in  appeasing  several  sentries,  were  missed  by  one  or  two 
shots,  and  reached  the  barbed  wires  Berral  had  indicated. 
They  waited,  soundless  and  motionless,  for  several  hours, 
before  Paul  felt  a  swift,  firm  pressure  on  his  shoulder.  An 
instant  later,  they  had  covered  with  their  rifles  a  man 
creeping  towards  them. 

The  very  atmosphere  flamed  and  flared  about  them;  in 
this  clear,  awful  night-light,  they  recognised  Krauss,  the 
model  orderly. 

"Confidential  mission  for  my  lieutenant,"  the  man  said 
calmly. 

"Good.     We  shall  take  you  to  him,"  said  Paul. 


THE  GIFT  OP  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"My  lieutenant  doesn't  need  interference  from  his 
subordinates,"  Krauss  tossed  back  insolently. 

"But  I  demand  obedience  from  the  ranks,"  Paul  said. 

"I  was  only  verifying  the  state  of  the  wires."  Krauss 
had  changed  tone. 

"You  first  plead  a  confidential  mission,  and  then  betray 
it  rather  than  report  on  it?"  Paul  asked. 

Krauss  did  not  speak  at  once;  his  mouth  hardened,  his 
hands  twitched. 

"Come,  comrades "  he  began. 

"Lead  this  man  to  Lieutenant  de  Falonges,"  Paul 
ordered,  addressing  two  soldiers  who  had  drawn  near. 
"If  he  tries  to  bolt,  or  as  much  as  stirs  an  arm,  kill  him. 
We  are  following." 

Having  got  so  far  hi  his  story,  Paul  stopped. 

"Well?"  I  prompted. 

"Oh,  why  tell  the  rest?  It  was  true.  The  Lieutenant 
threw  up  both  hands  in  helpless  horror.  He  had  ridiculed 
my  reports  on  the  strength  of  Berral's  statements,  several 
times  in  the  preceding  weeks. 

"Krauss  contradicted  himself,  tried  the  faithful-service 
dodge,  grew  sullen  and  indignant,  finally  collapsed  and 
confessed.  He  recovered  only  enough  energy  to  proclaim 
himself  a  Prussian  and  to  glory  hi  his  behaviour,  when  they 
led  him  away  to  be  shot. 

"I  went  back  to  my  own  place.  Several  of  our  shells, 
annihilating  the  farmhouse,  brought  light  and  fumes  and 
tremors  nearer  to  us  than  ever.  I  was  creeping  among  men 
laid  out  like  corpses  on  every  side.  Just  then,  the  cold 
grey  of  dawn  began  to  spread  its  chill  over  the  flares  sur- 
rounding us." 

With  the  day,  the  artillery  increased  its  uproar.  The 
General  strolled  by,  fully  exposed,  smoking  his  pipe,  talking 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         289 

familiarly  with  the  men,  making  topographical  remarks 
and  recalling  the  orders  already  given.  Colonels  followed 
his  example. 

"You  will  have  to  run  your  best,  boys;  you  have  warm 
work  ahead!"  said  Captain  de  Vervillers,  twisting  his 
moustache.  He  spoke  as  if  planning  a  foot-ball  rush. 
And  of  such  a  nature,  indeed,  was  the  attack  to  be. 

Andresy,  lying  near  Paul,  cried  out: 

"I  think  I'm  hit.  I  haven't  room  to  turn.  Look  for 
me,  and  see!" 

No  need  to  look;  Paul  had  seen  his  friend's  left  leg 
severed  beneath  the  knee,  by  a  piece  of  shell. 

"Old  man,  your  leg  is  gone,"  he  said. 

"Oh !  Oh,  the  swine!"  moaned  Andresy. 

At  that  instant,  the  appointed  time  was  reached.  Need- 
ing no  command,  the  first  ranks  sprang  from  trenches,  from 
shell-holes,  from  mine-caverns,  from  the  bare  ground  where 
men  had  lain  unprotected.  Like  hordes  of  ants  they 
swarmed  out,  hurrying  onward,  irresistible  by  their  mass 
and  by  their  united  power  of  will. 

As  Paul  leaped,  a  cheer  close  behind  him,  weak  and 
harrowing,  made  him  half-look  back,  without  stopping. 
Andresy,  clinging  to  the  trench's  edge,  had  drawn  himself 
up,  in  semblance  of  rising  with  his  mates;  tottering,  blood- 
stained, he  swung  there  cheering — then  the  next  shell 
claimed  him,  and  he  crumpled  away,  headless,  in  shapeless 
shreds. 

A  curtain  of  smoke,  greyish  yellow,  hemmed  in  the 
horizon  like  a  gigantic  panorama;  thin  trails  stretched 
out  across  the  country,  forming  frail  illusive  walls,  surer 
barriers  than  steel  or  masonry.  Northward  across  the 
plain,  and  then  up  a  slight  incline  to  the  left  or  into  the 
valley  of  the  little  river  to  the  right,  all  were  to  charge  alike 


290         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

for  several  hundred  yards.  Within  this  space,  their  sole 
chance  depended  on  such  swiftness  that  the  enemy's  guns 
could  not  be  trained  on  them.  Thereafter  the  action  was 
to  vary.  In  some  places,  mazes  of  wire  had  been  but 
slightly  touched  by  the  preparation,  and  there  the  fighting 
would  be  furious;  in  others,  one  or  two  trenches  and  their 
wires,  partly  or  totally  demolished,  would  be  carried  with 
bayonets  but  resistance  waited  beyond;  in  others  yet,  no 
vestige  of  defences  remained,  and  from  five  to  eight  lines 
would  be  carried  in  rapid  succession. 

The  lot  of  Paul's  brigade  had  been  to  charge  up  an  in- 
cline seamed  with  holes  and  slippery  from  ram. 

"The  black  hail  of  machine-guns  tried  to  stop  us.  Stop 
us?  They  didn't  know  what  we  were!  Stop  us!  We 
poured  into  our  first  objective — a  little  advanced  fortress  so 
strong  that  it  had  held  pretty  well  against  our  bombard- 
ment— we  poured  into  it,  I  say,  as  if  there  was  nobody  to 
defend  it.  And — and  there  wasn't. 

"Nobody.  We  found  only  machine-guns  worked  by 
electric  wires;  and  destroyed  them.  In  the  face  of  a  like 
fire,  we  charged  the  trench  beyond,  to  find  again  mere 
mechanisms  dealing  death.  On  we  went,  maddened  by 
disgust  and  a  sort  of  uncanny  fear.  The  next  trench,  we 
carried  against  a  handful  of  Germans;  they  were  firing 
machine-guns  and  had  apparently  been  working  those  we 
had  already  met.  Here,  the  trench  was  shattered,  and 
there  were  many  dead;  whole  bunches  of  bodies  had  been 
cast  together  in  heaps,  or  piled  as  defences,  mixed  in  with 
baskets  of  earth.  But  our  real  work  lay  still  beyond. 
We  charged  towards  the  third  trench — to  stagger  under  a 
whirl  of  shells  coming  from  several  directions  at  once." 

Paul  had  been  stirring  fretfully  in  his  white  bed;  a 
feverish  flush  had  been  growing  in  his  cheeks.  He  quivered, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         291 

now,  for  some  moments.  When  he  spoke  again*  he  was 
very  pale. 

"We  knew  something  had  gone  wrong.  Our  regiment 
was  leading;  the  Colonel  ordered  us  to  lie  down.  The  cap- 
tains and  the  lieutenants  were  the  last  to  obey — those  of 
them  who  survived.  For  our  officers  had  charged  at  the 
head  of  their  men,  and  been  killed  right  and  left.  Tradition 
— tradition — it  dies  hard,  but  gloriously !  The  Colonel  did 
not  obey  himself;  he  was  torn  to  pieces  as  the  last  captain 
lay  down,  the  Senior  Captain,  the  Marquis  de  Vervillers. 

"I  couldn't  see  much;  to  raise  one's  head  meant  death. 
A  corporal  near  me  was  killed,  passing  his  tinder-box  to  a 
neighbour;  his  forehead  had  bobbed  up  barely  an  inch. 
Most  of  us  had  started  to  smoke,  to  help  us  keep  quiet 
and  feel  dry.  We  might  have  to  wait  so  until  nightfall, 
not  moving,  and  not  able  to  reach  the  food  in  our  sacks. 
Men  were  being  killed  or  wounded  every  minute;  we  would 
hear  the  'plump',  perhaps,  but  no  other  sound.  Not  one 
of  our  men  forgot  his  comrades,  in  his  own  sufferings.  For, 
though  death  comes  to  mean  nothing  to  us  and  we  think 
nothing  of  killing, — when  we  hear  screams  from  a  some- 
thing lying  next  to  us,  a  something  that  was  alive  and 
well,  like  us,  a  moment  ago  and  that  wears  breeches  like 
ours,  we — can't  bear  it,  somehow. 

"Having  had  time  to  think,  I  began  to  understand. 
What  had  happened  was  that  the  Germans  had  left  the 
little  advanced  fortress  and  the  first  trench,  and  also  most 
of  the  second  trench,  with  only  machine-gun  garrisons  in  a 
length  of  four  hundred  yards.  Breaking  through  there 
and  reaching  the  third  line,  we  got  where  they  could  fire 
on  us  from  the  front  and  from  both  sides  and  slightly  from 
behind.  Yet  this  wasn't  the  worst.  By  advancing  too 
quickly  at  this  point  where  the  outward  condition  of  the 


292         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

defences  announced  sharp  resistance,  we  had  got  ahead 
of  the  time  fixed  for  our  artillery  to  lengthen  its  range — 
we  were  being  hashed  up  by  our  own  guns  too. 

"Captain  de  Vervillers  had  taken  over  the  command; 
he  and  Lieutenant  de  Falonges  conferred  together.  Our 
course  was  evidently  to  signal  a  'stop'  to  our  artillery, 
though  we  should  be  offered  as  targets  to  the  enemy;  we 
were  so  near  that  the  Boches  couldn't  miss  us. 

"The  Lieutenant  crawled  away,  and  rose  to  his  full 
height.  He  stood  there  like  a  figure  of  Liberty — like  a 
Greek  at  Marathon — like  anything  sublime  you  can  recall 
from  history  or  philosophy,  or  religion  either,  for  that 
matter.  He  fell,  killed  outright;  the  first  to  go  in  that 
attempt  which  alone  could  save  us. 

"Others  succeeded  him.  Berral,  for  instance,  who  died 
of  his  wound  during  the  night,  poor  chap;  he  lay  next  to 
me,  his  head  on  my  left  side.  It  meant  death  or  serious 
wounding  for  all  who  volunteered.  One  or  two,  bowled 
over  by  a  shot  that  didn't  kill  or  maim  them,  were  up 
again  at  once,  and  signalled  until  genuinely  knocked  out. 
After  a  while,  the  fire  of  our  artillery  ceased. 

"Night  came.  No  retreat  was  possible,  and  nobody 
wanted  it.  Under  cover  of  the  dark,  our  men  began  to  dig 
a  crescent-shaped  trench,  determined  to  hold  that  new 
position.  When  dawn  appeared,  we  were  protected,  and 
began  to  fight  the  trenches  near  us;  our  artillery,  brought 
forward  into  the  open,  supported  us  finely.  Reinforce- 
ments charged  to  our  rescue,  too.  They  ought  to  have 
come  before,  but  probably  thought  us  hopelessly  done  for." 

"  With  such  heavy  losses  among  officers,  you  must  have 
had  sergeants  acting  as  lieutenants,"  I  said. 

"Why,  in  the  field  ambulance,  I  heard  about  a  sergeant 
who  led  back  a  whole  regiment!" 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         293 

"You  yourself,  then,  may  have ' 

"Oh — I!  Missed  my  chance.  Hiding  ingloriously  in  a 
shell-hole,  like  the  other  wounded.  This  blown  up." 

With  his  left  hand  he  pointed  to  his  right  arm.  I 
noticed  that  the  first  joint  of  the  middle  finger  was  missing. 

"Another  wound?  And  on  that  hand?  You  never 
told  me." 

"Nail  cut  rather  too  close,  that's  all,"  he  smiled.  "That 
healed  before  I  left  the  other  hospital." 

A  pretty  nurse,  who  seemed  to  know  Paul  well,  had 
stopped  to  listen  for  some  moments.  Light  broke  upon 
her  before  I  had  gathered  my  wits : 

"  You  were  one  of  those  who  volunteered  to  signal,  and 
signalled  on  until  wounded  a  second  time!" 

"I  did  no  more  than  the  others,"  Paul  said  by  way  of 
assent.  "But  I  was  in  luck.  I  told  you  that  Lieutenant 
de  Falonges  himself  was  first?  Well!  By  being  quick — 
I  managed  to  be  second!" 


ACCUSTOMED  to  seeing  Sceur  Angele,  Paul  had,  little  by 
little,  forgotten  Mademoiselle  Odette;  or  else  remembered 
her  as  a  bright  figure  casting  a  radiant  glow  on  youthful 
memories.  He  had  loved  her  while  looking  up  to  her, 
unattainable  as  a  star;  and,  star-like,  she  had  shone 
throughout  the  clear  nights  of  yore,  only  to  vanish  in  the 
clouds  which  had  since  shrouded  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Mademoiselle  Odette  had  gone  for  ever;  but  it  was  sooth- 
ing to  have  Sceur  Angele  near  him  with  a  look  or  a  word 
always  pleasant  at  the  moment,  and  mayhap  recalling  that 
dream-figure  of  youth. 

Medical  questions  being  disposed  of  for  the  day  or  the 
hour,  she  would  talk  religion  with  him  and  make  him  say 


294         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

his  prayers.  He  would  have  said  prayers  uninterruptedly 
— barring  conversation — in  such  company.  But,  to  the 
distress  of  his  kind  friend  and  would-be  spiritual  guide,  he 
had  not  got  much  further. 

"You  belong  to  us,  my  child,"  Soeur  Angele  would  say, 
speaking  with  the  maturity  of  vocation  and  of  experience, 
though  her  advantage  in  years  might  be  inconsiderable. 
"You  belong  to  us.  Were  you  not  baptised  in  the  Holy 
Church — and  did  you  not  make  your  first  communion?" 

"Yes,"  Paul  agreed.  "I  don't  remember  what  I  did 
when  they  baptised  me,  but  I  remember  my  first  com- 
munion as  if  it  were  yesterday." 

"The  most  beautiful  day  in  your  life,  was  it  not?" 

"Up  to  that  time,  yes;  it  was  very  wonderful.  A  great 
emotion.  I  forgot  even  my  new  clothes,  and  the  lunch 
promised  us  at  the  church,  and  all  the  people  coming  to  see 
us  in  their  Sunday  dress,  and  the  music  which  the  Marquise 
had  said  would  be  as  good  as  in  Paris.  You  know,  I  had 
thought  a  lot  of  all  that,  in  advance,  like  the  other  children; 
it's  what  we  talked  of  most;  the  catechism  lessons  bored 
us,  and  we  made  fun  of  the  abbe  behind  his  back,  and  we 
might  have  wanted  to  drop  away  entirely,  if  we  hadn't  liked 
meeting  together  and  escaping  work  at  school  or  at  home. 
That's  the  plain  truth  of  it.  But  when  the  time  came,  1 
forgot  everything  else  in  that  great  emotion.  Deep,  and 
pure,  too;  I  say  pure,  because  it  seemed  to  uplift  me,  and 
there  was  no  reaction  afterwards.  I  seemed  to  drift  slowly 
back  to  earth,  without  a  jar,  and  feeling  better — I  almost 
said  holier.  It  was  helpful.  Only,  I  didn't  understand." 

"Understanding  was  not  meant  for  us  all,  my  child. 
Yet  we  can  all  find  grace  through  the  Holy  Church.  The 
heart  must  respond  first;  and  then,  God  willing,  the  mind 
follows." 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         295 

"For  some,  perhaps,"  Paul  answered.  "But  for  me, 
dear  Soeur  Angele,  dogma  and  ritual  merely  bind  up  my 
heart  and  darken  my  eyes,  and  cut  me  off  from  the  living 
God  whom  I  know  and  feel.  You  need  an  organised, 
crystallised  religion  to  connect  you  with  God,  so  you  are 
right  to  follow  it  fearlessly.  I  respect  it,  and  respect  you, 
too.  But  why  shouldn't  you  respect  my  ideas  and  me, 
when  I  assure  you  I  am  better  and  happier  without  yours? " 

"Respect  heresy!"  cried  out  Soeur  Angele.  "Respect 
agnosticism  and  infidelity?  You,  Paul,  ask  this  of  me?" 

"No,  I  never  asked  that.  I  solemnly  swear  I  didn't!" 
Paul  laughed. 

His  good-humoured  attitude,  and  his  willingness  to 
listen  before  replying,  made  him  peculiarly  difficult  as  a 
venture  in  forcible  conversion.  Dogged  prejudice  and 
irascible  outbursts  may  be  worn  down,  with  patience  and 
persistence.  But  a  temperate  nature  and  a  receptive 
while  well-developed  mind  offer  no  jagged  points  for  scaling 
the  outer  wall,  and  reveal  so  few  weaknesses  that  the 
best  canonical  artillery  exhausts  itself  in  scattered  shots. 

Taken  aback  by  Paul's  ready  reply  on  this  occasion, 
Sceur  Angele  profited  by  a  hint  her  confessor  had  dropped 
the  day  before,  when  she  had  told  him  of  the  beautiful 
stray  lamb  to  be  led  towards  spiritual  as  well  as  physical 
health.  "If  general  statements  render  him  argumenta- 
tive," the  holy  man  had  said,  "bring  him,  through  gradual 
concessions,  to  matters  of  application  which  are  unques- 
tionable and  whereof  you  are  better  informed  than  he." 

Leaving  his  reply  unnoticed,  she  asked,  as  if  changing 
the  subject: 

"  Have  you  observed  the  new  spirit  which  reigns  through- 
out France?" 

"I  haven't  had  much  opportunity  for  that;  but  I  know 


296         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

of  the  spirit  which  reigns  in  the  army  zone,"  Paul  an- 
swered. 

"Ah!  You  have  observed  it!"  the  nun  triumphed. 
"You  see  as  it  were  a  new  race  of  Frenchmen?" 

"Quite." 

"You  see  them  do  bravely  and  die  bravely?" 

"They  could  not  be  surpassed." 

"Then — then  what  are  you  arguing  about?  Don't  you 
see  that  you  and  I  agree?  " 

"Yes — on  this  point,"  said  Paul. 

"On  this  point — but  what  other  point  is  there?"  she 
demanded.  "You  admit  the  religious  renovation  of  our 
race;  you  admit  that  men,  once  unbelievers,  once  enemies 
of  our  faith,  have  returned  to  their  most  sacred  duties;  you 
know,  as  I  do,  of  soldiers  stopping  cur$s  and  abbes  in  the 
streets  to  beg  for  scapular ies " 

Paul's  mouth  opened  at  this  interpretation  of  his  own 
words  and  of  his  companions'  heroism;  but  as  his  lips  met 
again  he  was  so  moved  by  the  kind  sister's  sweet,  blind 
faith,  that  he  neither  smiled  nor  attempted  to  correct  her. 

She  continued: 

"Twice  already  you  have  been  worthy  to  receive  the 
Blessed  Sacrament.  If  you  would  but  consent  to  pre- 
pare your  heart  for  it  once  more " 

"I  know  too  well  what  it  means  for  those  who  take  it," 
Paul  answered.  "From  reverence,  I  would  not  imitate, 
where  they  believe." 

"You  still  doubt!"  groaned  the  nun.  "You,  born  and 
bred  a  Catholic,  can  doubt!  No,  impossible.  It  is 
courage  you  lack.  You  fear  your  uncle  may  cast  you  off." 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Sceur  Angele," 
Paul  said,  "even  though  you  make  me  out  a  fool  or  a 
coward." 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         297 

"God  help  him,  he  is  lost,  irretrievably  lost!"  the  nun 
moaned.  "This  from  you,  Paul  Clerinont,  whose  arm 
God  has  saved  by  a  miracle!" 

"I  wish  I  were  sure  it's  saved,"  Paul  said,  his  face 
clouding. 

Soaur  Angele  should,  following  the  priest's  advice,  have 
profited  by  this  altered  mood  to  begin  a  prayer  or  two. 
But  the  pretty  young  nurse,  already  mentioned,  had  just 
finished  a  task  at  the  adjoining  bed,  and  could  not  have 
failed  to  hear.  The  sister  appealed  to  her: 

"To  think  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  dangerous  in- 
fluences in  childhood,  he  would  never  have  drifted  from 
us !  A  lay  school,  for  years,  at  the  most  important  period 
of  his  youth !  Then,  as  if  that  had  not  abounded  in  snares 
of  Satan,  he  must  come  in  contact  with  an  impious 
foreigner.  The  man  dares  pretend  to  an  independent 
religion,  based  on  philosophy  and  personal  readings  of 
the  Gospels!" 

"Don't  forget  the  apostles,  and  especially  my  patron 
saint,"  Paul  interposed. 

"  But  they  deny  our  Blessed  Lady ! " 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Or  they  esteem  her  only  as  a  privileged  mother! 
Blasphemy!"  She  threw  up  her  hands.  "That  man, 
who  is  responsible  for  perverting  this  innocent  soul,  may 
call  himself  a  philosopher,  but  he's  no  better  than  a  com- 
mon Protestant.  That's  my  opinion." 

"I  don't  know  about  him;  but  I  don't  worry  about  our 
sous-officier,"  the  pretty  nurse  replied.  "He  is  one  of  us, 
since  he  was  baptised  and  made  his  first  communion." 

"And  renewed  it,"  Paul  added. 

"He  can't  escape  us,"  the  young  lady  pursued.  "When 
he  says  wicked  things  it's  only  for  the  fun  of  horrifying 


298         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

you,  Soeur  Angela.    He  never  talks  so  to  me.    Do  you, 
Sergeant  Clermont?" 

No.  Paul  never  talked  so  to  her;  never  denied  aught 
she  said.  He  looked  up  to  her,  in  fact,  and  admired  and 
obeyed  and  worshipped  her,  as  if — as  if  she  had  been 
Mademoiselle  Odette  of  the  long  ago. 

A  very  different  type,  though.  Dark,  with  bright  eyes 
and  crimson  lips,  and  a  faint  suggestion  of  pink  beneath 
the  cream  of  her  cheeks.  She  was  tall,  but  swift  of  move- 
ment as  if  she  had  been  small;  fascinating  to  look  at,  in- 
comparably delightful  to  talk  to,  and  furthermore  rendered 
irresistible  by  a  mystery.  Not  a  mystery  of  speech  nor  of 
appearance,  for  nothing  could  have  been  franker  than 
both.  It  was  about  her  name.  She  came  from  Brittany, 
and  was  called  de  Clermont. 

In  the  relentless  suffering  and  recurrent  fears  of  his 
first  weeks,  Paul  had  meditated  much  upon  this.  What 
if  they  were  distantly  related?  He  thought  of  it,  dreamed 
of  it,  while  not  daring  to  mention  it.  And  then,  one  day 
when  his  torment  was  extreme,  she  brought  up  the  subject : 

"Your  name  is  the  same  as  mine.    Did  you  know  that? " 

Instantaneously,  martyrdom  was  forgotten. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Only—"  (The  hypocrite!  He  said 
only  /) — "My  father  was  from  Brittany." 

"But  so  am  I,"  she  said,  surprised  at  this  revelation. 
(I  don't  doubt  that  he  looked  surprised  when  she  did, 
the  rogue!)  "My  father  was  Baron  de  Clermont,  of 
Kerzevant  Castle." 

"Mine  was  plain  Albert  Clermont,  of  the  tax  service." 

"He  had  a  distinction  which  mine  was  denied — dying 
for  his  country."  She  had  heard  of  his  end,  from  Paul. 
"Albert?"  she  went  on.  "I  have  known  of  that  name  in 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         200 

our  family.  Who  was  your  mother?  You  must  look  up 
all  the  papers,  as  soon  as  you  are  well  enough." 

"There  are  no  more  records,  for  those  who  lived  in 
Arnan  or  Verviller." 

"Never  mind!  We  shall  find  out  somehow.  Do  you 
remember  your  mother's  name?" 

"She  died  when  I  was  a  baby — or — or  at  least  very 
young,"  Paul  faltered.  "But  her  name  was  on  the  birth 
certificate  the  Bodies  took  from  me;  I  had  looked  at  it 
often.  Re  vail,  written  with  two  Ps  at  the  end.  Seems 
like  a  misspelling." 

"Surely,  I  have  heard  that  name.  You  may  be  my 
cousin ! "  said  Mademoiselle  de  Clermont. 

"She  couldn't  have  meant  it,"  Paul  observed  to  me 
later.  For  he  did  not  confess  this  promptly.  "Too 
extraordinary,  our  meeting  so,  if  we  were  relatives.  She 
has  never  asked  another  question,  so  she  didn't  really  care. 
But  do  you  know,  those  words  of  hers  were  what  pulled 
me  round  the  corner. 

"It  was  the  worst  day  I  have  had;  I  couldn't  bear  to 
think  of  night  coming.  Nor  was  pain  the  only  thing 
worrying  me.  The  doctors  had  agreed  that  if  the  in- 
fection increased  by  morning,  the  arm  must  come  off  at  the 
shoulder.  No  more  fighting — no  more  chance  to  be  useful ! 
I  think  fear  sent  up  my  temperature  more  than  the  angri- 
ness  of  the  wound.  Then  the  thought  of  that  lovely 
cousin — perhaps! — wanting  to  believe  she  was  my  cousin, 
made  me  so  happy,  and  brought  so  many  delightful 
ideas — "Colour  almost  returned  to  his  wan  cheeks — 
"that  I  got  control  of  myself,  and  stayed  perfectly  quiet 
all  night,  though  I  didn't  sleep;  and  in  the  morning  the 
arm  was  no  worse,  which  meant  it  was  better.  I  believe 
she  spoke  as  she  did  on  purpose  to  keep  up  my  spirits. 


300         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Any  fib  is  righteous,  in  such  circumstances.  But  though 
she  may  have  forgotten,  I  haven't!  Wait  till  after  the 
war.  She  shan't  forget  her  'cousin,'  if  I  can  have  a  say!" 

Where  I  made  my  mistake,  was  in  repeating  these 
last  words  to  Marcel  Lavenu.  Ever  since,  he  has  been 
jocularly  inclined,  making  saucy  remarks  to  me  and 
writing  impudent  letters  to  Paul. 

Paul's  wish  is  that  Marcel  should  live  with  me,  now  that 
Verviller  has  regained  so  much  activity  that  I  have  a  house 
of  my  own;  Ernest  has  been  claimed  by  his  grandmother. 
I  had  been  alone,  save  for  Leonie,  scarcely  able  to  walk 
yet  still  rebellious  against  the  suggestion  of  assistance. 
And  I  would  have  continued  alone,  since  none  can  replace 
Paul.  But  I  confess  that  I  like  to  hear  that  stumping 
step  hurry  towards  me,  and  the  cheery  call  ring  out: 
"Well,  PereAubret?" 

At  night,  Marcel,  who  always  scorned  books,  likes 
to  talk,  especially  about  his  own  adventures  or  Paul's, 
balancing  the  two  judiciously,  and  never  quite  sure  which 
of  them  makes  the  better  hero.  He  has  persuaded  me  to 
read  aloud  the  whole  of  this  manuscript,  translated  cur- 
rently into  French  as  I  proceed.  For  he  has  been  too  lazy 
to  accept  my  offer  of  English  lessons.  "One  tongue 
suffices  for  a  one-legged  man,"  he  says.  Some  of  the  pas- 
sages referring  to  Paul  have  filled  his  bright,  honest  eyes 
with  tears;  others,  devoted  to  himself,  he  has  demanded 
many  times  over,  pronouncing  them  excellent,  if  rather 
brief.  Of  the  military  parts,  he  says:  "Many  people  will 
criticise  them,  but  people  who  have  gone  through  the  mill 
will  know  they're  true." 

The  ward  where  Paul  lay  was  for  the  seriously  wounded. 
Of  the  twenty  now  there,  his  case  alone  seemed  doubtful 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         301 

as  a  surgical  proposition.  The  doctors  spoke  encourag- 
ingly to  him — and  held  out  to  me  a  faint  hope  that  he 
might  remain  intact  with  a  useless,  muscle-bound  limb. 
After  many  weeks  of  infection,  due  mainly  to  the  grave 
nature  of  his  injury,  but  also  to  the  number  of  hours  he 
had  lain  neglected  in  a  shell-hole,  the  arm  had  started  on  a 
dangerous  course  of  healing  only  to  break  open  again. 
For  not  one  moment,  however,  had  his  spirit  flagged  or  his 
resolution  weakened;  he  was  bound  to  get  well  and  rejoin 
his  comrades,  or  such  as  remained.  Of  his  officers,  not 
one,  I  believe,  was  left.  Captain  de  Vervillers  himself, 
brilliantly  distinguished  on  that  famous  day,  had  got  the 
Legion  of  Honour  and  a  remarkable  mention  in  the  army's 
Order  of  the  Day,  and  was  acting  as  Major  in  command 
of  an  important  centre. 

"Perhaps  you  might  follow  him,  in  some  capacity," 
the  Marquise  said  to  Paul.  But,  seeing  his  face 
cloud,  she  added  tactfully:  "When  he  returns  to  his 
regiment." 

"I  would  more  gladly  follow  him  there  than  do  anything 
else  in  the  world,"  Paul  replied. 

It  was  her  own  home  in  Paris  which  she  had  transformed 
into  an  auxiliary  ambulance,  before  her  husband's  death; 
and  the  new  Marquis  had  approved  this.  The  tall  win- 
dows of  the  grand  salon,  which  was  Paul's  ward,  opened  on 
a  vista  of  lawn  and  trees  rare  even  in  the  favoured  Fau- 
bourg St.  Germain.  All  was  bright,  peaceful,  comforting. 
Sweet-faced  nuns  in  grey  dresses  and  white  coifs,  like  birds 
of  good  omen,  fluttered  about  busily,  speaking  softly ;  young 
ladies  of  the  aristocracy,  in  the  uniform  of  the  Red  Cross, 
qualified  for  the  most  delicate  surgical  nursing,  were 
almost  gentler,  almost  sweeter-voiced,  and  equally  de- 
voted. The  Marquise  herself,  feeling  the  obligations 


302         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

imposed  upon  her  by  rank  and  privilege,  had  taken  a 
complete  hospital  course,  since  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
not  sparing  herself  night-work,  and  rising  at  six  when 
on  day-duty;  rivalling  in  zeal,  at  more  than  fifty  years  of 
age,  with  girls  of  twenty.  Her  figure  had  begun  to  bend 
and  her  features  showed  weariness  under  the  strain;  but 
her  energy  was  inexhaustible,  her  good-humour  unfailing, 
and  her  kindly  face,  now  free  from  all  artifice  of  fashion, 
had  grown  almost  beautiful. 

At  least,  it  was  beautiful  to  me  and  to  many  another 
whom  she  befriended.  She  had  located  Paul  in  Lyon 
whereas  I,  almost  distraught,  had  lost  trace  of  him  after 
his  brief  passage  in  the  field-hospital;  and  she  had  arranged 
for  his  transfer  where  her  own  care  could  help  bring  him 
back  to  usefulness. 

When  the  wound  healed  with  some  prospect  of  per- 
manence, the  muscles  had  re-knit  stiffened  and  shortened. 
In  his  dogged  hopefulness,  he  believed  this  condition 
might  be  remedied.  I  did  not  undeceive  him,  while  know- 
ing that  parts  of  the  muscles  had  been  completely  torn 
away.  There  was  scarcely  a  chance  he  might  ever 
straighten  out  his  arm;  lengthening  it  to  match  the  left 
arm,  or  bringing  it  back  to  normal  flexibility,  were 
hypothetic  conditions  beyond  the  limits  of  physical 
possibilities. 

One  morning  I  found  him  with  drawn  face,  stern  and 
uncommunicative,  as  he  sat  in  the  chair  by  his  bed, 
wearing  hospital-clothes  but  saving  his  dignity  with  the 
sergeant's  police-cap  on  his  head.  At  frequent  intervals 
he  would  get  up  and  walk  to  the  end  of  the  ward  and  back. 
A  two-pound  weight  hung  from  his  fore-arm,  crossed 
upon  his  chest  as  it  bade  fair  to  remain.  Some  prospects 
of  lengthening  the  muscles  by  such  means  had  been  held 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         303 

out  to  him.  While  the  doctors  had  abstained  from  details, 
Paul  had  read  aright. 

Several  days  passed.     At  last  he  said: 

"We  have  got  to  find  a  way  out." 

"I  don't  understand,"  I  said. 

"For  the  present,  I  don't  either,"  he  admitted.  "But 
I  believe  Mademoiselle  de  Clermont  knows.  She  looked 
so  wise  when  I  asked  to  be  allowed  mechanical  treatment." 

The  young  nurse  had  stopped,  smiling,  beside  him;  his 
last  sentences  had  been  addressed  to  her. 

"Who  would  not  have  looked  the  same!"  she  cried. 
"The  doctor  told  you  it  could  help  only  in  certain  cases, 
and  that  the  first  condition  was  a  properly  healed  wound. 
Yours  is  doing  nicely,  for  the — how  many  times  have  we 
had  trouble  with  it?  This  time,  it's  decidedly  better  than 
ever  before;  but  if  you  were  to  break  it  open  again ?" 

"How  else  do  you  expect  the  muscles  to  loosen?"  Paul 
demanded.  "Because  they  must  be  loosened;  if  not,  I 
must  leave  the  army.  An  officer  can  do  without  a  limb; 
a  sergeant  must  not  only  lead  his  men,  but  fight  with 
them." 

"You  have  fought  well,  and  helped  the  cause,  and  won 
our  gratitude,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Clermont.  She 
turned  to  me:  "Perhaps  you  can  make  him  realise  what 
it  will  mean  if  this  wound  gets  ugly  again.  There's  a 
species  of  dust  in  it;  looks  like  an  expansive  bullet,  added 
to  the  rest.  We  are  proud  of  saving  that  arm;  and  now 
he  wants  to  spoil  everything,  like  the  naughty  boy  he  is!" 

With  a  shake  of  her  head,  and  a  smile  and  a  frown,  she 
passed  on. 

"Easy  for  her  and  you  to  be  philosophical,"  Paul 

grumbled.  "But  for  me "  Breaking  off,  he  asked: 

"Have  I  changed  much?" 


304         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"  No,"  I  hastened  to  reassure  him.  "  You  are  rather  pale 
and  thin,  and  not  so  strong  as  you  will  soon  be,  but " 

"That's  not  what  I  mean.  Myself — the  I — the  Paul 
you  knew Have  I,  have  we,  changed?" 

"You  have  grown  in  many  ways." 

"Something  isn't  as  it  used  to  be." 

As  he  said  this,  I  thought  of  all  the  men  I  had  seen  go  to 
the  war,  and  of  those  I  had  seen  return;  and  I  thought  of 
the  change  I  had  noted.  Beyond  all  my  powers  of  analy- 
sis, it  was  real  and  consistent  in  them  all,  whatever  their 
differences  of  character.  Paul  alone  appeared  as  an 
exception.  But  when  speaking  to  me,  he  had  never 
dwelt  on  scenes  of  carnage.  I  thought  now  of  what  he  had 
said  about  this. 

He  went  on: 

"To  think  there  was  a  time  when  brutality  merely  re- 
volted me!  I  didn't  know  there  were  human  creatures 
who  use  falsehood  and  treachery  as  the  deliberate  way 
towards  brutality,  and  who  fear,  and  respect  from  fear, 
brute  force  alone.  It's  kill  or  be  killed:  and  we  don't 
mind.  It's  go  through  scenes  of  carnage  so  horrible  that  I 
couldn't  talk  about  it  in  a  peaceful  town,  to  a  decent 
person:  and  we  don't  mind.  It's  count  human  life  cheap 
and  your  own  cheapest  of  all,  provided  you've  fought 
out  your  bargain:  and  we  don't  mind.  Mind?  No!  We 
want  to  keep  at  it  till  we're  rid  of  this  nightmare.  If  we 
must  soil  our  hands,  it's  that  the  hands  of  those  who  come 
after  us  may  be  clean!  That's  service,  isn't  it?" 

Getting  up,  he  paced  once  more.  I  could  see  his  mouth 
tighten  each  time  the  weight  swung  at  his  wrist,  but  he 
betrayed  himself  in  no  other  way.  Repeatedly  he  stopped 
quite  still,  attentive  as  if  listening.  Coming  back  towards 
me,  he  said  abruptly: 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         305 

"You  know  what  they  are  aiming  at — send  me  home 
to  Verviller  in  a  few  months,  with  my  discharge  in  my 
pocket  and  with  an  arm  in  each  of  my  sleeves.  But  if  I 
am  to  work  quietly  there  or  elsewhere,  in  any  room  or 
office  of  France  or  of  the  world,  I  don't  need  a  half-dead 
arm  on  my  right  side !  They  won't  listen  to  me — but  they 
may  listen  to  you.  Tell  them  you  wish  the  mechanical 
treatment  to  be  tried,  on  the  bare  forlorn  chance  it  may 
make  me  a  sound  man  fit  for  the  trenches.  And  tell  them 
if  it  fails,  I  shall  be  happier  with  an  empty  sleeve  than  with 
a  broken  heart!" 

"Bravo!  That  is  worthy  of  my  husband's  young 
friend!"  The  Marquise  de  Vervillers  stood  near  us,  radi- 
ating happiness. 

I  addressed  her  sourly: 

"It  is  boyish  folly!" 

"Yes.  The  sort  of  boyish  folly  from  which  a  new  and 
glorious  France  is  being  made!  You  are  right,  Paul!  I 
may  call  you  Paul,  may  I  not?  I  am  an  old  woman;  and 
my  husband  knew  you  and  liked  you  and  believed  in  you — 
believed  in  you,  remember !  You  are  right,  and  I  shall  help 
you.  Unless  M.  Aubret  goes  so  far  as  to  protest  for- 
mally  " 

"He  wouldn't  dare!"  Paul  cried,  hugging  me  with  his 
left  arm. 

"I  shall  have  you  transferred  to  the  small  ward  near  my 
dispensary,  where  I  attend  to  the  patients  myself,  instead 
of  merely  supervising,"  she  continued.  Then  she  added: 
"With  the  assistance  of  Mademoiselle  de  Clermont,  and 
Soeur  Angele,  of  course!" 

Paul's  grey  eyes  beamed  upon  her  a  wordless  joy,  while 
his  pale  cheeks  flushed.  He  looked  very  young,  un- 
changed and  unspoiled,  with  his  close-cropped,  velvety 


306         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

hair  marking,  as  in  boyhood,  the  points  above  his  forehead 
and  revealing  the  fine  lines  of  his  intelligent  head.  For 
he  sets  to  his  men  the  example  they  should  follow,  saying: 
"Ordinary  people  do  as  they  please;  only  a  grocer's  or  a 
hairdresser's  boy,  and  a  sheep-like  fool,  need  smother  their 
heads  in  wool;  but  a  wise  man  shouldn't  and  a  soldier 
mustn't.  A  brain  wants  to  breathe  if  it's  got  to  work." 

When  the  Marquise  had  left  us,  he  whispered,  still 
clinging  to  me  with  his  sound  arm: 

"You  will  thank  her  for  us  both,  won't  you?  She's  not 
only  saving  me — she's  preventing  you  from  doing  me  a 
wrong!" 

He  was  set  to  rowing  a  fictitious  boat,  or  some  like  exer- 
cise; and  at  once  the  wound  burst  open.  Patiently,  he 
relapsed  into  inertness.  Reaching  once  again  the  stage 
rendering  an  experiment  possible,  he  demanded  a  renewal 
of  the  treatment.  This  time  the  consequences  were  so 
serious  that  amputation  reappeared  as  an  imminent 
probability. 

"It's  the  other  half  of  our  bargain,"  Paul  said,  un- 
disturbed, to  the  head  surgeon  who  reproached  him  with 
his  stubborn  rashness.  "If  you  don't  cure  me,  then  the 
arm  goes  to  you." 

Clean  blood,  a  sound  constitution,  devoted  nursing,  and 
an  indomitable  will,  conquered  the  flesh  once  again. 

"You  may  congratulate  yourself  on  your  escape,"  the 
surgeon  told  him.  "I  hope  this  will  render  you  more 
reasonable." 

"I  promise!"  Paul  replied.  "Suppose  we  say  I  shall 
wait  for  an  entire  week  after  the  first  day  it  might  be  pos- 
sible to  begin?" 

As  I  sat  silently  by  him,  he  mused: 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         307 

"'A  miracle'  was  what  Soeur  Angele  said.  Miracles 
are  unaccountable  things.  There's  a  man  in  this  ambu- 
lance who  was  hit  on  the  side  of  the  nose;  the  bullet,  just 
missing  his  ri^ht  eye,  came  out  grazing  the  lid  of  the  left. 
Both  eyes  saved.  A  miracle,  of  course!  But  in  the  field 
ambulance  where  I  was  taken,  there  was  a  patient;  a  bullet 
had  struck  him  in  one  eye,  touched  a  bone,  glanced  off, 
and  came  out  through  the  socket  of  the  other  eye. 
Couldn't  have  happened  more  than  once  in  thousands  of 
similar  wounds.  So,  a  miracle.  It's  the  same  law  which 
one  man  has  to  thank  for  his  sight,  and  the  other  for  his 
blindness." 

"Why — why?"  he  burst  out  suddenly,  after  a  pause. 
"That's  the  question  I  keep  asking  myself.  A  shell 
exploded  fifteen  feet  from  where  some  comrades  and  I 
were  standing;  another  group  lay  beyond;  nobody  was 
hurt.  Why  didn't  it  fall  on  some  of  us — or  why  weren't 
some  of  us  where  it  fell?  I've  had  a  soup-tin,  next  to  me 
on  the  ground,  riddled  with  holes  all  at  once,  and  I  not 
touched.  Once,  I  saw  a  friend's  skull  cut  in  two  while  I 
looked  at  him,  within  half  a  yard  of  me;  a  fragment  of  the 
same  shell  cleared  my  head,  though  I  was  taller  than  he. 
Bullets  have  punched  the  earth  an  inch  or  two  from  my 
hand.  Why  didn't  they  come  nearer — or  why  hadn't 
I  thrust  my  hand  forward?  In  order  to  be  shot,  I  had  to 
stand  up  and  wave  and  make  such  a  target  of  myself  that 
a  four-year-old  boy  with  a  pea-shooter  couldn't  have 
missed  me;  and  even  then,  I  was  only  winged  while  my  com- 
rades, who  did  as  much  as  I,  had  to  die.  Why  is  it — why  ?  " 

"Perhaps  because  you  were  meant  to  live,  Paul;  because 
you  have  work  to  do;  because  your  vocation,  declared  in 
boyhood,  still  has  its  demands  to  make,  guarding  you  so 
that  destiny  may  be  fulfilled!" 


308         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"That  can't  be  true,"  he  said  hoarsely.  With  eyes 
fixed  on  me,  he  watched  me  so  long  and  so  silently  that  I 
thought  him  about  to  open  his  heart;  then  I  thought  he 
would  not  speak.  But  his  eyes  did  not  leave  me.  I 
waited. 

"I  still  dream  of  those  old  ambitions,  sometimes,"  he 
said. 

I  felt  that  he  had  not  expressed  his  thought;  that  he  had 
decided  not  to  mention  it,  or  at  least  not  then. 

"A  question  stops  me,  too,  when  I  try  to  think,"  he 
went  on.  "I  mean,  a  question  which  doesn't  depend  on 
myself.  Since  men  haven't  reached  a  stage  where  they  can 
agree  even  theoretically  as  to  what  is  right,  how  can  their 
laws  be  made  better?" 

Unable  to  answer,  I  asked: 

"Does  your  inner  voice  no  longer  prompt  you?" 

"I  can't  believe  in  it  any  more."  He  spoke  so  solemnly 
that  I  dared  not  question  further. 

He  had  his  way;  the  treatment  succeeded.  His  arm 
remains  shortened  not  more  than  an  inch,  and  may  still 
lengthen  slightly;  the  muscular  flexibility,  if  not  complete, 
has  been  sufficient  for  him  to  rejoin  his  corps.  A  surgical 
triumph,  the  doctors  gravely  inform  us;  Sceur  Angele 
insists  on  the  miracle;  Mademoiselle  de  Clermont  teasingly 
asserts:  "Luck!"  But  the  Marquise  de  Vervillers  and  I 
say:  "Paul." 

His  convalescence  at  the  ambulance  was  so  protracted, 
including  even  a  course  in  fencing  towards  the  end,  that 
after  his  medical  discharge  he  asked  for  only  a  six-day 
leave — as  for  a  soldier  home  from  the  front.  Having  no 
reason  to  go  far  from  Paris,  and  yet  desiring  country  air, 
we  went  to  Versailles.  Perhaps  we  had  special  motives, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         309 

too;  I  know  he  visited  the  cemetery;  and  to  me,  the  town 
where  I  shared  the  last  months  of  his  independent  life  is 
almost  sacred. 

Soon  after  dark,  on  the  night  before  he  left,  we  happened 
to  pass  the  Cathedral  whose  Louis  XV  style,  Franco- 
Spanish,  suggested  to  us  those  churches  so  familiar  in 
Lorraine  and  seen  nowhere  else  in  France,  I  believe.  A 
bright  moon  in  a  wind-whipped  sky  shone  near  the  rounded 
dome  with  its  thin,  globe-topped  spire;  below,  the  yellowed 
stone  glowed  smooth  and  fair.  Lights  from  the  broad 
white  windows  cut  across  our  path.  Responding  to  I 
know  not  what  impulse  or  emotion,  we  stopped,  turned, 
and  tacitly  agreed  to  enter. 

Blackness  filled  the  aspiring  heights  of  the  nave;  gloom 
drifted  down,  veiling  the  capitals  of  the  great  round 
columns  but  shading  to  greyness  as  it  fell.  About  us,  and 
yet  above  our  heads,  diffused  rays  cast  radiance  wherever 
a  man  might  kneel  or  stand  to  pray. 

As  we  came  in,  a  group  of  worshippers  faded  away, 
soundlessly,  at  the  farther  door,  the  sharp  blow  of  whose 
closing  told  us  they  had  really  been  there  and  had  gone. 
We  saw  none  save  each  other;  but  at  moments  a  footstep, 
half-muffled,  many-echoed,  would  start  from  an  invisible 
space  and  clatter,  ghost-like,  from  stone  to  stone. 

I  prayed  for  the  boy,  prayed  selfishly  that  he  might  be 
spared  to  me — I,  who  lay  no  claim  to  creed  but  know  the 
power  of  prayer.  And  while  I  prayed  selfishly  for  him,  I 
believe  Paul  prayed  for  me — but  his  prayer  was  generous : 
his  features,  noble  as  always,  still  boyish  and  yet  with  the 
firmness  of  manhood,  were  transfigured  as  they  may  have 
been  on  that  day  long  ago  in  Verviller,  which  had  seemed 
"very  wonderful." 

Silently  leaving,  we  crossed  the  ringing  blocks,  historic 


310         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

prodigies  of  paving,  which  hem  in  the  Cathedral  of  St. 
Louis;  and,  walking  on,  we  entered  a  small  unlighted 
street,  all  mystery,  hard  by  the  high  wall  of  the  horticul- 
tural gardens.  People  live  in  that  street,  yet  few  are  heard 
to  pass  by  night  or  are  seen  by  day;  a  wall  with  doors  that 
never  open  shuts  off  one  side,  and  houses  posing  as  tenant- 
less  guard  the  other.  Few  seem  to  pass;  but  echoes  there 
claim  tribute  from  each  step,  each  breath,  each  leaf  that 
wanders,  mystery-haunted,  within  its  precincts. 

Paul  spoke  softly: 

"I  said  I  couldn't  believe  in  the  voice  any  more.  Ever 
since  the  old  days,  it  has  prompted  me,  often;  and  when  I 
haven't  listened  I've  been  sorry  afterwards.  Explain  it? 
I  can't;  not  any  more  than  Socrates  could;  but  at  least  I 
don't  pretend,  like  professors  and  worldly  wisemen,  to 
know  better  than  Socrates  and  call  him  virtually  a  fool 
simply  because  he  had  to  accept  the  evidence  of  his  senses. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is;  but  I  know  it's  there,  and  I  recog- 
nise it  when  I  hear  it,  quite  distinct  from  conscience  or 
imagination.  In  fact,  it  often  goes  against  my  impulses 
or  desires.  But  it's  never  contrary  to  what  proves  eventu- 
ally to  have  been  right.  I  said  never;  I  should  have  said 
never  until  that  day  at  the  ambulance.  You  remember? 
The  voice  tried  to  guide  me  wrong.  It  kept  repeating: 
'Paul,  you  have  done  your  share.  You  are  freed  from 
obligations.  Let  others  do  their  share.  Return  to  lead 
your  life  as  it  was  meant  to  be,  return  to  prepare  for  your 
work.'  Now,  I  knew  I  hadn't  done  enough;  I  knew  I 
oughtn't  to  be  inactive.  And  I  knew — I  know  I'm  not 
worthy,  any  more,  of  the  big  work  I  used  to  aspire  to,  once. 
So  I  answered  myself:  'This  is  not  the  voice.  This  time 
you  are  a  victim  of  imagination.  And  though  it  were 
the  voice,  you  must  not  obey  it  where  you  feel  it  is 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         311 

wrong.'    But  I've  understood,  since,  that  it  had  really 
spoken." 

"How?" 

"Because,  since  I  disobeyed,  it  has  never  spoken  again." 

VI 

THE  letters  Paul  sends  me  from  the  region  of  Verdun  are 
brief,  but  evoke  the  horrors  and  the  miseries  of  the  cam- 
paign like  nothing  he  has  yet  written.  He  is  living  a 
nightmare  protracted  for  hour  after  hour  and  for  week 
after  week;  a  state  of  existence  in  which  men  are  heroic 
demons,  holding  in  their  scarred  hands  the  holy  trust 
of  their  country's  security,  Lucifers  toiling  grimly  to 
achieve  apotheosis;  an  existence  in  which  the  once  con- 
flicting elements  of  fire  and  water  have  mingled  to  the 
utter  confusion  of  all  creatures,  and  part  when  fire  con- 
sumes the  very  air  and  when  water  melts  away  the  solid 
earth,  while  poor  human  mites,  deprived  alike  of  trust  and 
of  guarantee  in  an  unfamiliar  world,  struggle  and  fight, 
fight  and  struggle,  until  they  die,  or  rouse  with  dazed  senses 
to  ask  how  they  came  not  to  die.  Paul  wrote: 

It  is — I  was  about  to  say  it  is  a  living  hell,  but  the  word's 
too  mild.  A  short  while  ago,  somebody  showed  me  a  copy  of 
Dante's  Inferno  with  Dore's  illustrations.  Why,  that  man  Dore 
didn't  know  what  torture  meant.  He  looked  out  of  his  study 
window  into  a  cozy  old-fashioned  garden,  and  saw  an  autumn 
storm  shaking  the  trees — that  all. 

Talking  with  me,  he  has  described  Verdun,  famed  ever 
since  Roman  days  as  the  bulwark  of  France,  unconquered 
still  among  the  ruins  hemming  in  its  triumphant  citadel. 
Do  not  those  ruins  form,  indeed,  a  crown  of  glorious 
jewels,  set  in  a  circle  of  impregnable  forts? 


312 

The  town  is  like  a  palace  of  cards,  impressive  and  intri- 
cate, piled  storey  upon  storey,  ready  to  crumble  at  a  breath. 
Many  houses  assume  a  semblance  of  being  nearly  intact; 
one  can  fancy  them  inhabited,  behind  tight-closed  shutters, 
by  stubborn  and  courageous  citizens  defying  evacuation 
orders.  Those  houses  are,  perhaps,  more  ominous  than 
heaps  of  wreckage;  for  a  shell  has  entered  treacherously, 
making  but  a  hole  in  the  outer  wall  or  the  roof,  and  has 
pulverised  the  interior  or  uprooted  the  foundations,  leaving 
intact  only  a  species  of  mask.  Is  this  what  German 
barbarians  sought — to  revive  in  France  the  heathenish 
legend  of  the  Lorelei  whose  smile  lures  the  guileless  to 
wander  on,  and  perish? 

But  though  houses  collapse,  and  though  they  bring 
death,  Verdun  will  not  fall;  for  with  Verdun  as  with 
Sparta,  her  armies  are  her  walls  and  the  soldiers  are  the 
bricks. 

Around  these  phantasmal  but  immortal  ruins,  villages 
are  strewn,  or  what  were  villages  once;  some  still  showing 
groups  of  pierced  roofs  and  broken  masonry;  others,  mere 
heaps  of  refuse;  many,  but  spots  on  a  desolate  plain. 
Where  forests  waved,  the  pride  and  the  splendour  of 
Lorraine,  sticks  of  brushwood  are  scattered  or  stuck  erect. 
The  earth  itself — but  who  speaks  of  earth?  This  is  no 
longer  the  gnarled  surface  of  old  mother  earth;  it  is  her 
seamed  and  ravaged  face,  marred  and  pitted  beyond  recog- 
nition by  the  scourge  of  small-pox;  features  once  fair,  and 
ever  to  be  loved,  now  disfigured,  repulsive,  terrible. 

A  difficult  period  has  had  to  be  weathered,  with  daily 
fighting  on  a  fragmentary  scale  and  indefinite  biding  for 
a  solution,  while  a  new  and  inexperienced,  though  all- 
powerful,  ally  forms  its  forces  for  the  decisive  onslaught. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         313 

An  anxious  time  for  those  who  are  scrapping  and  stopping, 
scrapping  and  stopping,  whereas  their  indomitable  courage 
and  their  overwrought  nerves  ask  only  to  fight  and  win  and 
be  done  with  it;  an  anxious  time,  too,  for  us  at  the  rear, 
who  calculate  the  risks  already  run,  and  the  extraordinary 
chance  which  has  allowed  our  dear  ones  to  be  spared — so 
far. 

Paul  no  longer  asks  "why"  he  is  avoided  by  the  hail  of 
steel  falling  all  round  him;  he  takes  for  granted  both  the 
general  danger  and  his  present  immunity. 

"There's  a  funny  thing  about  shells  when  you  hear  them 
coming,"  he  has  remarked.  "You  often  fear  that  particular 
one  may  get  a  comrade,  but  you  never  think  it  could  be  for 
you.  Even  if  you  are  in  the  open  and  lie  down,  it's  just 
because  a  wee  splinter  might  reach  you,  but  you  never 
imagine  you  could  be  killed. — Luckily!" 

I  had  seen  Paul  more  frequently  than  I  could  have  hoped 
yet  not  with  the  joy  on  which  I  might  have  had  a  right  to 
count.  He  would  be  brought  back  by  a  complication  from 
his  old  wound,  or  by  an  unexplained  fever  or  disorder. 
Before  the  doctors  pronounced  him  convalescent,  he  would 
demand  to  be  off  again.  I  began  to  suspect  that  in 
addition  to  a  half-maimed  limb,  he  had  to  bear  with  a 
deeply  shaken  nervous  system.  He  never  complained; 
but  I  recall  that  he  said  to  me: 

"The  war  will  come  to  an  end,  sooner  or  later,  and  some 
of  us  will  be  left.  But  what  can  ever  compensate  us  for 
what  we  have  gone  through?  I  know  men  in  the  twenties 
who  are  already  worn  out,  and  by  no  fault  of  theirs;  the 
mainspring's  weakened,  and  the  mechanism's  used  up; 
they  will  find  themselves  old  men  when  they  want  to  begin 
life.  They  may  try  to  forget;  but  they  have  lost  what 
can't  be  forgotten." 


314         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

I  left  my  Verviller  house  to  Marcel,  and  took  a  flat  in 
Paris,  so  that  Paul  might  have  diversions  when  on  leave. 
That  was  the  motive  I  alleged;  but  I  had  borne  in  mind  the 
little  affair  with  his  "cousin"  Mademoiselle  de  Clermont. 
The  Marquise  de  Vervillers  would  occasionally  invite  me 
to  her  house  for  lunch,  a  meal  shared  by  the  ladies  helping 
at  her  hospital  and  served  in  the  private  apartments  re- 
served on  the  first  floor.  I  gathered  the  impression  that 
the  late  Baron  de  Clermont's  only  daughter  had  not  en- 
tirely dismissed  the  image  of  one  among  her  many  patients; 
and  I  hoped  that  Paul  might  stand  as  good  a  chance  as  any 
one,  and  better  than  most,  to  win  the  hand  of  this  charm- 
ing young  aristocrat.  By  discussing  Breton  legends,  I 
gathered  from  Mademoiselle  de  Clermont  notions  of  the 
localities  connected  with  her  name,  and  so  was  able  to  set 
qualified  persons  to  work,  diligently  investigating  parish 
and  township  registers  for  possible  clues  to  Paul's  ancestry. 

He  and  she  were  no  more  than  very  good  friends,  when 
they  met;  and  such  were  the  ideal  relations  for  them,  at  this 
juncture.  But  I  noticed  that  he  told  her  much  that  one 
need  not  relate  to  casual  friends.  I  know  indeed  that  he 
told  his  entire  story;  and  I  saw  for  myself  that  it  placed 
no  barrier  between  them.  Then  I  thought  the  time  come 
to  talk  with  the  Marquise  de  Vervillers  about  the  settle- 
ment I  had  made  on  him.  Of  course  the  good  lady  is 
above  vulgar,  sordid  considerations;  it  is  because  of  her 
genuine  interest  in  Paul  that  she  has  ever  since  treated 
him  almost  like  a  child  of  her  own. 

He  has  again  been  at  her  hospital.  Oddly  enough, 
parting  from  me  not  long  before,  he  had  said : 

"Next  time  I  see  you,  it  will  be  because  of  a  wound. 
My  turn  hasn't  come  yet,  I  think;  but  I'm  going  to  be 
wounded." 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         315 

I  tried  to  laugh  it  off,  though  I  had  heard  many  strange 
instances  of  soldiers  who  have  made  such  prophecies,  and 
been  right. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  "if  you  go  hunting  for  it " 

"No,"  he  answered  soberly.  "It  doesn't  come  that 
way." 

Nor  did  it. 

It  hunted  him  out  in  his  shell-proof.  Two  nights 
previously,  he  had  led  a  raid,  accomplishing  a  perilous 
mission  and  bringing  back  the  prisoners  and  the  informa- 
tion wanted,  and  also  all  his  own  men  though  several  were 
wounded.  He  stood  peacefully  and  in  apparent  security, 
at  rest  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  when  a  shell  broke 
through  and  burst,  killing  an  officer  and  two  soldiers,  and 
wounding  him  thrice,  in  hip  and  side  and  shoulder. 

So  great  had  been  the  number  of  wounded,  that  no 
anaesthetics  remained  at  the  nearest  ambulance.  The 
operation  was  judged  imperatively  urgent,  and  he  was 
butchered  in  the  live  flesh.  He  says  all  went  fairly  well 
for  the  extraction  of  the  first  bit,  but  he  lost  his  self- 
control  and  fought  against  those  who  held  him  down  for  the 
second,  and  went  off  raving  in  delirium  when  it  came  to  the 
third.  Complications  were  averted  by  the  promptness 
of  this  ghastly  intervention;  that  is,  all  physical  compli- 
cations save  a  slight  limp;  but  ever  since,  I  have  watched 
him  with  an  indefinable  concern. 

What  I  noticed  at  first  was  no  more  than  an  occasional 
tone — a  look — how  could  I  tell?  For  I  did  not  yet  know. 
A  species  of  apprehension  seemed  to  hang  over  him,  which 
was  not  a  form  of  fear;  and  I  could  discern  no  further. 

I  was  certain  it  could  not  be  fear,  not  only  by  his  words 
but  because  I  saw  him  tested  repeatedly  at  what  we  called 
in  jest  the  "Paris  front,"  a  spot  more  exposed,  indeed, 


316         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

than  certain  sectors.  We  who  had  grown  accustomed  to 
the  quietude  of  Paris  have  weathered  a  series  of  raids  and 
alarms;  we  have  had  them  by  night,  and  night  upon  night, 
and  several  times  in  a  night;  and  we  have  had  long- 
distance bombardments  by  day,  from  sunrise  to  sunset, 
until  the  dull,  re-echoing  thud  of  shells  bursting  at  regular 
intervals,  but  more  or  less  remote,  more  or  less  resonant, 
were  as  familiar  to  us  as  the  siren's  lonely  wail  and  the 
hysterical  gasp  of  horns,  or  as  the  boom  of  the  cannon  and 
the  cracking  of  shrapnel  and  of  machine-guns. 

He  and  I  have  been  near  the  places  where  bombs  or 
shells  burst;  and  we  have  visited  the  scenes  of  greatest 
havoc.  We  have  seen  the  dead  and  the  mutilated;  and  we 
have  found  houses  with  a  storey  or  two  destroyed,  and 
buildings  with  scarred  faces,  and  innumerable  smashed 
window-panes,  and  iron  shutters  cut  as  by  giant  shears, 
and  drains  blown  up,  and  holes  in  asphalt  or  wooden  pave- 
ments. Thousands  of  people  viewed  all  this;  they  were 
neither  frightened  nor  emotional.  On  the  scene  of  the 
grim  spectacle,  they  spoke  little;  then  they  would  go  about 
their  business,  and  the  life  of  Paris  proceeded  as  before. 

What  a  poor  result  for  so  much  scheming  and  attempt- 
ing, so  much  violation  of  human  laws;  so  much  science  de- 
voted, money  expended,  energy  concentrated;  so  much 
resolve  to  win,  whatever  the  means  employed: — a  little 
innocent  blood  shed,  a  few  homes  destroyed,  a  large 
masons'  and  glaziers'  and  plumbers'  and  carpenters'  bill 
for  future  reckoning — and  Paris  going  about  its  business 
as  before! 

No;  even  with  the  shocks  of  these  recent  wounds  and  the 
operation,  added  to  his  existing  troubles,  Paul  had  no  fear; 
yet  I  guessed  an  intangible  apprehension.  That  idea,  or 
that  inkling  of  an  idea,  was  the  nearest  I  approached  to  the 


317 

truth  until  one  evening  when  he  told  a  story  to  amuse  us — 
Madame  de  Vervillers,  Mademoiselle  de  Clermont,  and 
myself. 

As  he  spoke,  he  became  his  old  self  once  again,  gay  and 
graphic;  it  was  long  since  I  had  heard  him  in  this  vein,  and 
a  weight  was  lifted  from  my  spirit.  Whatever  had 
happened,  he  was  still  faithful  and  trusting,  and  likely  to 
say  "It  doesn't  matter"  when  everything  failed  him,  and 
his  heart  was  near  breaking.  I  had  done  what  a  guardian 
could,  my  part  was  ended:  he  would  not  again  draw  in- 
spiration from  me.  But  for  the  sake  of  the  woman  he 
desired  as  his  mate,  he  had  recovered  the  qualities  which 
I  thought  dead;  and  as  she  listened,  I  knew  that  she  was 
not  indifferent.  Yet  it  was  this  tale,  begun  so  simply  and 
with  a  single  motive,  which  in  the  end  betrayed  a  truth 
constantly  present  to  me  ever  since,  as  it  had  already 
become  a  brooding,  inseparable  part  of  himself. 

"There's  somebody  we  mind  much  more  than  Fritz,  and 
that's  Monsieur  Cafard,"  he  said  lightly.  "Fritz  may  not 
have  any  sense  of  shame,  but  he  has  a  wholesome  sense  of 
retirement,  and  he  doesn't  show  himself  unless  he  has  to. 
But  Monsieur  Cafard  sticks  at  nothing,  he  lacks  the 
commonest  prudence  as  well  as  discretion." 

"You  mean  homesickness,  of  course,"  I  commented, 
although  I  began  to  be  puzzled. 

"No,  I  mean  exactly  what,  or  rather  whom,  I  say, 
Monsieur  Cafard.  He's  quite  different  from  the  ordinary 
cafard  we  used  to  have.  That  was  a  condition,  and  it 
came  at  you  in  another  way.  You  were  lonesome  and 
melancholy,  and  you  mooned  about  for  a  little  while  before 
either  recovering  or  else  going  home,  and  that  was  the  end 
of  it. 


318         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

"But  Monsieur  Cafard  won't  be  treated  so  casually,  not 
at  any  price.  He's  after  you  quick  as  a  flash,  before  you 
know  you  are  lonely  or  melancholy.  There's  no  period 
allowed  for  mooning,  and  there's  no  going  home.  And  he 
attacks  most  viciously  when  you've  just  got  back  from 
leave  and  there's  no  prospect  of  home  again  for  four 
months,  unless  you  get  smashed.  That's  one  of  the  re- 
spects in  which  Monsieur  Cafard  shows  his  lack  of  decency 
and  fair  play." 

"A  Boche  behaves  better,  then?"  Mademoiselle  de 
Clermont  prompted. 

"Fritz,"  Paul  corrected.  "The  word  Boche  is  passing 
out.  You  know  the  course  of  slang.  We  run  it  into  the 
ground,  and  then  we  tire  of  it  and  fling  it  aside.  So,  from 
the  day  we  got  the  Boches  thoroughly  in  the  ground,  and 
several  storeys  deep,  too,  the  word  was  doomed. 

"I  wouldn't  pretend  Fritz  is  a  pleasant  customer.  But 
he's  easier  and  healthier  to  deal  with  than  Monsieur 
Cafard.  If  you  kill  him  you  kill  him,  and  you  can  say  to 
yourself  afterwards,  'There's  one  less,  anyhow.'  The 
chief  trouble  with  Monsieur  Cafard  is  that  you  can't 
kill  him.  However  hard  you  hit  when  driving  him  away 
this  time,  he'll  be  at  you  again  the  very  next  moment,  un- 
less you're  careful.  Kill  him?  Why,  you  can't  even  tire 
the  beggar!  We  get  relative  relief  from  him  only  when 
we're  hard  driven  fighting  Fritz  and  haven't  a  chance  to 
think.  Yet  the  first  line  itself  isn't  an  entire  protection 
against  Monsieur  Cafard,  for  we  must  rest  at  certain  hours. 
It's  not  fair,  I  say.  He  hasn't  the  least  notion  of  honour- 
able conduct.  If  he  weren't  so  tough  and  adaptable,  I 
should  believe  he  was  Made  in  Germany.  But  he's  too 
well-built  for  that;  he's  of  good  materials  and  sound  work- 
manship— worse  luck!" 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         319 

Already,  I  had  known  of  cafard  as  a  condition,  and  I 
had  been  able  to  accept  him  as  a  personality.  This  new 
mechanical  metaphor,  however,  got  me  seriously  mixed. 
I  ventured  to  state  the  fact. 

" So  is  he  mixed,"  Paul  replied  calmly.  "And  so  are  we, 
when  he  gets  at  us.  As  I've  already  told  you,  it's  not  just 
homesickness;  nor  is  it  just  depression,  nor  just  loneliness, 
nor  just  idleness.  There's  all  of  that,  and  weariness  too; 
and  there's  a  big  share  of  ennui,  and  rage  at  seeing  our- 
selves in  such  a  mess ;  and  there  are  memories  of  all  sorts  of 
things,  nice  and  ugly,  what  we'd  like  to  have  and  what 
we've  got  to  accept,  all  jumbled  up  together.  Once  our 
thoughts  have  taken  that  mould,  we're  no  longer  prey  to  a 
simple  mood,  we're  at  grips  with  an  active,  resourceful, 
murderous  enemy,  full  of  wile  and  as  steady  as  clock-work. 
Yes,  he's  a  condition  and  a  mechanism,  both;  but  he's  a 
real  live  creature  besides,  and  we  call  him  Monsieur  Ca- 
fard." 

In  the  heat  of  things,  a  man  might  at  least  be  free  from 
Monsieur  Cafard,  he  said.  Yet  not  always.  Even  ex- 
treme danger  was  not  a  guarantee,  if  opportunities  for 
struggling  were  eliminated,  and  if  melancholy  compli- 
cations were  piled  on  while  you  waited. 

For  instance,  knocking  about  in  barbed  wires  at  night, 
for  one  reason  or  another,  and  having  rockets  go  off  un- 
expectedly, and  then  hearing  machine-guns  turned  loose, 
was  part  of  the  game  and  nobody  kicked  against  the 
principle  of  it.  But  according  to  circumstances,  Monsieur 
Cafard  might  be  very  close  or  else  quite  forgotten. 

Only  a  week  before,  Paul  had  had  to  go  on  a  job  of  the 
kind,  a  reconnoissance,  with  three  men.  They  had  to  pass 
through  the  worst  chicane  he  had  yet  met,  a  narrow  and 
sharp-turning  lane  between  fields  of  wire;  and  often  they 


320         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

had  to  work  their  way  underneath.  Their  helmets  kept 
striking  and  ringing  against  the  steel  points;  and  of  course 
rockets  would  go  up,  and  machine-guns  would  begin 
spitting;  but  things  would  quiet  down,  and  the  men  would 
creep  on  once  more. 

They  finished  the  job,  and  were  on  their  way  back.  It 
had  been  rather  nerve-racking,  but  not  too  bad,  as  such 
things  go.  Then,  when  they  had  got  within  a  few  yards 
of  safety,  the  moon  rose  suddenly  from  a  bank  of  heavy 
cloud  and  flooded  the  whole  country  with  light.  Taken  by 
surprise,  they  all  threw  themselves  flat,  while  bullets  rained 
round  them.  For  ten  minutes  they  didn't  move.  The 
fire  slowed  down,  they  started  to  crawl  forward;  they  were 
both  seen  and  heard,  and  the  fire  began  afresh. 

For  very  nearly  an  hour  this  went  on:  an  attempt  to  start 
as  soon  as  quiet  came,  and  the  machine-guns  after  them 
like  cats  after  mice  before  they  had  crawled  more  than  a 
few  inches.  It  was  hideous.  But  not  for  one  instant  did 
Monsieur  Cafard  get  near  them.  They  were  too  closely 
concentrated  on  the  wish  to  profit  by  every  tiny  hope  for 
drawing  a  little  nearer  to  safety;  though  death  seemed 
inevitable,  they  could  still  struggle. 

On  such  occasions,  Monsieur  Cafard  felt  he  might 
afford  to  stand  clear;  his  chance  would  be  sure  to  come 
again,  soon  enough. 

A  perfect  opportunity  for  him  came,  once,  in  a  really 
pleasant  landscape,  a  rough  country  riddled  with  shell- 
holes,  rich  in  logs  and  tree-stumps  mixed  with  wire,  more 
mud  than  had  ever  been  brought  together  since  the  Flood 
subsided,  and  a  night  as  black  as  you  make  them.  Paul 
and  his  men  had  been  detailed  to  carry  torpedoes  to  the 
crapouillot  bombardiers  in  the  first  line;  they  had  five 
miles  to  go,  each  with  that  heavy  weight  on  his  shoulders 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         321 

and  permission  to  halt  and  shift  it  to  the  other  side  at  the 
end  of  every  mile. 

A  rocket  blazed  up,  one  of  those  confounded  new  rockets 
which  make  no  noise  until  they  flare,  and  so  they  catch  you 
at  work.  The  men  with  their  torpedoes  were  seen  as 
plainly  as  by  day,  and  the  German  machine-guns  began 
their  tac-tac-tac,  tac-a-tac.  Only  one  thing  could  be  done; 
orders  were  whispered  to  lie  down  and  "swim,"  each  man 
with  his  torpedo  on  his  back. 

No  prospect  of  escape,  or  relief,  or  struggle,  or  anything 
else  containing  hope;  and  the  certainty  that  the  fire  would 
continue  long,  with  such  fine  game  to  hunt.  You  had  to 
lie  there  in  the  mud,  with  that  torpedo  on  your  back,  and 
the  hail  of  bullets  striking  all  round  you;  and  when  you  got 
up,  it  would  be  to  creep  on  a  little  farther  with  your  load, 
growing  heavier  while  you  grew  sorer  at  each  step  which 
drew  you  closer  to  danger. 

As  Paul  and  his  comrades  lay,  silent  and  miserable, 
thinking  of  this,  a  finishing  touch  was  added.  Rain  fell,  a 
fine,  stealthy  drizzle  soaking  steadily  into  the  flesh.  That 
was  the  diabolical  exaggeration  of  misery  which  Monsieur 
Cafard's  ingeniousness  had  devised,  to  complete  the  effects 
of  weary  muscles  and  aching  bones  and  oozy  mud  and 
pelting  bullets  and  hideous  night. 

It  was  too  much  for  the  men.  They  absolutely  gave 
up.  And  Monsieur  Cafard  revelled  in  his  ignoble  tri- 
umph. 

But  he  had  failed  to  take  into  account  the  fact  that  they 
had  their  regimental  fool  with  them.  An  utter,  hopeless 
fool,  and  generally  useless,  save  for  playing  the  fool.  Not 
having  brains  enough  to  appreciate  the  extreme  forlornness 
surrounding  them  all,  and  not  having  a  single  thought  in 
his  head  to  make  him  more  wretched  by  comparison,  he 


322         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

chose  to  find  something  funny  in  the  angle  at  which  a  com- 
rade raised  his  nose  for  an  instant. 

"You  look  like  a  duck  bobbing  for  water,"  murmured 
Durancy  the  fool.  "Haven't  you  got  enough  water  as  it 
is?" 

From  sheer  wretchedness,  Paul  laughed  in  a  subdued 
sort  of  way,  and  some  of  his  neighbours  followed  suit. 
Ranelle,  who  was  no  fool,  saw  his  opening  and  threw  down 
a  challenge  to  Monsieur  Caf  ard  by  sighing  out  in  a  squeaky 
sing-song  whisper: 

"Tis  not  for  us,  boys,  'tis  for  F-r-r-r-rance!" 

Another  quickly  braced  up  and  added  his  word;  though 
a  poor  one,  it  helped: 

"Oh,  mother,  why  did  you  give  me  a  back  when  I  was 
born?" 

That  sufficed.  The  fun  had  been  started,  and  they  kept 
it  going  as  then-  last  hope  upon  earth.  They  got  Mon- 
sieur Cafard  roundly  on  the  run.  And  presently  the  rain 
stopped,  and  Fritz  let  up  with  his  machine-guns,  and  they 
all  shouldered  their  torpedoes  once  more  and  went  on  their 
way,  feeling  really  happy. ' 

"You  see,"  Paul  observed,  "having  downed  OUT  most 
inveterate  enemy,  we  didn't  mind  poor  Fritz.  Every- 
thing's in  the  method,  but  thank  God  for  a  fool,  once  in  a 
while." 

"Have  you,  then,'  a  regular  method  for  fighting  off 
Monsieur  Cafard,  or  does  it  just  depend?"  Mademoiselle 
de  Clermont  laughed. 1 

"Both.  The  main  thing  is  to  know  his  nature  as  well 
as  he  knows  yours.  Monsieur  Cafard  does  not  like  happi- 
ness; and  another  thing  he  hates  is  light.  He  is  sure  to 
score  in  a  gloomy  dug-out  when  you  lack  elementary  com- 
forts and  essential  decencies,  and  everybody's  too  nervous 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         323 

to  sleep.  I  believe  the  thing  which  makes  him  angriest  of 
all  is  a  fire  in  winter.  He  likes  to  see  you  shivering  miser- 
ably in  a  big  old  barn,  with  wind  and  rain  blowing  in  from 
everywhere  and  no  warmth  anywhere. 

"Sometimes  we  are  able  to  rig  up  a  stove  out  of  a  piece 
of  old  grate  from  the  wreck  of  a  house;  and  if  we're  lucky 
enough  to  find  a  battered  boiler  and  any  sort  of  a  pipe,  then 
our  stove's  complete.  Or  no,  I  don't  quite  mean  any 
sort  of  pipe.  Lead  won't  do,  it  melts,  as  we  found  out  by 
sad  experience.  We  lacked  heat,  that  night,  but  at  least 
Monsieur  Cafard  didn't  get  us,  for  we  never  laughed  more 
— especially  as  Ranelle  just  missed  a  ladleful  of  hot  lead  on 
his  head.  Another  return  to  mediaeval  ways  of  war,  you 
see! 

"It's  astonishing  how  much  can  be  learned  by  ex- 
perience. For  instance,  we've  learned  not  to  do  too  much 
damage  when  we  take  possession  of  a  deserted  house  and 
start  fires  going  in  huge  old-fashioned  chimneys.  We 
used  to  start  the  chimney  itself  off,  every  time.  Now,  we 
generally  avoid  that.  Too  dangerous  for  ourselves. 

"We  had  got  a  glorious  blaze  going  in  a  place  of  the  kind, 
which  was  the  only  shelter  for  miles  and  miles.  Suddenly 
we  heard  a  terrific  roaring  above.  The  whole  chimney 
was  a  mass  of  flames,  inside;  and  it  was  an  exceptionally 
large  chimney.  Quick  as  thought,  we  rammed  things  in 
below,  to  stop  the  draught.  But  a  different  sort  of  row 
broke  loose,  like  a  machine-gun  attack  on  a  small  scale. 
At  first  we  thought  the  chimney  was  about  to  explode. 
Then  bullets  whizzed  in,  and  we  understood  somebody  was 
shooting. 

"Fritzes?  Not  one  bit  of  it.  That  fool  of  a  Durancy 
had  been  told,  as  a  boy,  that  the  surest  way  to  put  out  a 
chimney-fire  was  to  shoot  off  a  fowling-piece  into  the  fire- 


824         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

place.  Being  Durancy,  he  climbed  on  the  roof  instead, 
and  not  having  a  fowling-piece,  turned  loose  with  his  rifle, 
emptying  the  magazine  down  the  chimney  as  fast  as  he 
could  re-load. 

"When  we  caught  on,  we  fell  to  laughing  so  that  we 
could  hardly  get  out  of  the  way  of  his  shots;  several  of  us 
just  missed  getting  our  skin  punched;  two  of  us  tumbled 
from  the  roof  as  we  tried  to  reach  him  and  stop  his  activi- 
ties. His  rifle  was  nicely  cleaned  for  inspection  next  day, 
I  can  promise  you.  As  for  us,  we'd  had  our  laugh. 

"Monsieur  Cafard  has  no  use  for  scenes  like  that.  But 
he's  mean  enough  to  take  a  dirty  vengeance,  when  the 
fun  is  over. 

"  I  remember  particularly  one  night  of  terrific  cold,  when 
the  men  had  collected  a  lot  of  wood  to  burn  on  an  im- 
provised brasero,  in  a  leaky  loft.  If  the  fire  went  out  they 
would  change  to  icicles  while  asleep.  So,  before  turning 
in,  they  piled  on  the  wood.  Anybody  who  happened  to  be 
awake  later  was  to  add  more — you  know  that  sort  of  ar- 
rangement. What  wasn't  known  at  the  time  was  that 
somebody  had  set  a  big  bean  up  on  end,  like  a  mast  or  a 
tent-pole,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  blaze.  It  stood 
steadily,  the  base  being  broad  and  sawed  straight;  and 
that  sufficed  for  him.  We  are  all  positive  it  could  have 
been  nobody  except  Durancy. 

"Ranelle,  who's  a  pretty  good  chap,  had  staid  up, 
fortunately,  having  a  chat  with  the  cook  in  the  barn 
beneath.  He  saw  showers  of  sparks  come  down  through 
the  gaps,  and  he  chased  up  the  ladder  before  it  was  too 
late. 

"The  men  put  all  the  blame  on  Durancy;  they  said  his 
beam,  or  joy-mast,  or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it,  had 
flopped  over  by  force  of  circumstances  when  its  base  got 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         325 

charred  away,  and  so  it  set  the  floor  afire.  But  I  knew 
Durancy  was  only  partially  responsible,  and  I  said  so; 
which  pleased  him,  because  he  didn't  acknowledge  having 
put  the  beam  there.  I  knew  they  had  never  been  more 
successful  in  driving  Monsieur  Cafard  away,  than  that 
evening  up  to  the  moment  when  they  dropped  off  to  sleep, 
all  warm  and  comfortable.  And  so  our  enemy " 

Paul  broke  off  abruptly;  his  attention  had  wandered. 
Near  at  hand  there  was  a  sound  of  knocking  against  a  wall, 
slow  heavy  thuds  as  from  a  workman's  pick. 

"Boom — Boom — Boom,"  he  muttered,  as  each  suc- 
cessive blow  fell.  "Why  can't  they  stop  that  noise? 
One  doesn't  mind  being  in  the  thick  of  it.  But  to  sit  up 
and  listen  to  feeble  imitations  is  just  begging  Monsieur 

Cafard  to  come  catch  you.  It's  enough  to Why  did 

you  stop  talking?  Or  did  I  stop?  What  was  I  saying?  " 

"You  were  explaining  the  surest  ways  for  defeating 
Monsieur  Cafard,"  I  answered,  pointedly. 

"The  system  consists  in  keeping  the  fun  going,"  he  re- 
turned. "You  seize  any  excuse  for  being  cheerful  in 
spite  of  everything." 

"And  suppose  you  don't  succeed?"  I  rashly  asked. 

"Suppose  we  don't  succeed,"  he  repeated  after  a  good 
many  moments  of  reflection.  "Why,  then  Monsieur 
Cafard  gets  us.  You  hear  about  bad  cases  of  neurasthenia 
— but  it's  Monsieur  Cafard.  A  man  may  go  mad,  once  in  a 
while — it's  Monsieur  Cafard.  A  man  may  kill  himself 
after  a  trifling  reprimand — Monsieur  Cafard.  Or  he  may 
lose  his  head  and  show  lack  of  respect  towards  an  officer — 
still  Monsieur  Cafard. 

"I'm  of  a  flegmatic  temperament,  or  so  the  others  tell 
me.  With  the  crowd,  I  can  keep  up  my  spirits  as  well  as 
the  rest.  But  sometimes " 


326         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

Paul  had  positively  changed  colour;  his  fingers  and  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  were  twitching. 

"I  say!"  he  burst  out  violently,  turning  upon  me  with 
a  swift  movement.  "Why  can't  you  change  the  sub- 
ject?" 

The  expression  in  his  eyes  appalled  me;  and  I  saw  Made- 
moiselle de  Clermont  look  away  in  pain  rather  than  in 
horror. 

When  we  were  alone,  Paul  made  his  confession: 

"I — I  don't  know  what  comes  over  me,  at  such  times. 
I'm  all  right,  of  course;  but  since  my  last  wounds,  coming 
after  the  Verdun  fighting,  I — I  can't  explain.  It's  foolish, 
it's  humiliating;  and  besides,  it  fills  me  with  a  dread  worse 
than  anything:  the  dread  of  losing  my  nerve.  I'm  not  a 
coward  yet.  But  suppose  I  ever  am?"  He  shuddered  and 
broke  off. 

Later,  I  said  to  Mademoiselle  de  Clermont: 

"What  do  you  think  of  Paul's  condition?" 

"I  think  he  is  a  hero,"  was  her  reply. 

My  conclusion  was  that  Paul,  having  already  a  part- 
useless  arm  unfitting  him  for  self-defence,  and  being  now 
wrecked  by  further  strain  and  serious  wounds,  must  not 
be  for  the  present  with  an  active  unit.  I  believe  I  could 
have  secured  for  him  an  appointment  in  some  connection 
with  the  American  Army;  he  was  certainly  qualified  by 
his  wounds,  by  his  knowledge  and  experience  of  fighting 
conditions,  and  by  his  familiarity  with  the  French  and 
English  languages.  But  he  would  not  allow  me  to  take 
steps  to  this  effect.  He  has  made  up  his  mind  to  serve  to 
the  end  among  his  own  people,  for  the  avenging  of  their 
own  wrongs.  He  has  a  man's  right  to  decide,  since  he  has 
done  a  man's  work.  I  reproach  him  with  his  lack  of 
reason,  while  I  bow  before  his  will. 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         327 

My  plans  led  me  to  visit  our  American  troops  in  train- 
ing; and  though  I  failed  to  influence  Paul,  I  am  the  richer 
for  impressions  which  have  filled  him,  as  they  have  myself, 
with  admiration  and  with  confidence.  What  men, — lithe, 
and  comely,  and  athletic,  cheerful-hearted,  strictly  disci- 
plined, marvellously  developed,  supple  and  sure  as  the 
finest  steel,  superb  and  clean  as  the  youth  of  America  can 
be;  preparing  to  fight  for  a  principle,  for  a  cause,  for  their 
country  and  for  other  countries,  preparing  to  fight  not 
because  they  hated  but  because  they  had  to  fight,  and 
resolved  to  do  it  well  because  it  was  their  custom  to  do  well 
all  things  whatever  they  undertook  in  life!  Their  spirit 
seemed  to  soar  as  Quentin  Roosevelt  soared,  eager  and 
sincere,  unassumingly  courageous  and  unswervingly  reso- 
lute, ardent  with  the  desire  to  conquer,  iron-willed  but 
golden-hearted,  triumphant  over  death  itself. 

I  have  returned  to  Verviller.  Paul  writes  to  me  now 
from  the  Reims  sector.  The  work  of  barbarous  destruc- 
tion has  been  raging  furiously.  An  officer  who  passed 
there  has  described  the  town  as  "heaps  of  stone,  piles  of 
ashes,  awful  wreckage,  where  nothing  in  the  way  of  build- 
ings can  be  recognised."  Yet  one  thing,  lamentable  in  its 
martyrdom,  can  still  be  identified  from  all  points  of  the 
desolate  landscape:  the  seared  Cathedral,  standing  in 
ghostly  semblance  of  its  olden  form. 

If,  as  I  have  sometimes  thought,  the  first  bombard- 
ment of  Reims  marked  a  turning-point  in  the  spirit  of 
France,  I  believe  the  present  furious,  insatiable  vandal- 
ism against  a  spot  whose  sole  offence  is  its  traditional 
beauty  and  holiness  will  mark  another  and  even  wider 
change. 

Then,  the  country  had  tasted  the  bitterness  of  reverses, 


328    -^  THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

before  experiencing  the  sweetness  of  reawakened  hopes  and 
of  newly  hardened  resolution.  Since  then,  France  has 
given  proofs  of  inexhaustible  courage,  and  she  holds 
more  than  hope — she  grasps  sureties  of  triumph.  These 
do  not  consist  of  mere  material  stakes  torn  from  the 
enemy.  They  consist  in  the  work  of  her  soldiers,  in  the 
brains  of  her  officers,  in  the  resolution  of  her  rulers; 
in  the  loyalty,  the  energy,  the  effective  help  of  powerful 
Allies;  and  in  her  own  patient  fortitude  through  years  of 
unequalled  self-abnegation  and  of  steadfast,  irresistible 
endeavour. 

Yet,  with  the  thought  of  Paul  lying  like  a  leaden  weight 
within  my  bosom,  I  ask  myself  what  even  the  wanton 
destruction  of  homes,  as  of  smiling  fields  and  works  of  art, 
can  matter.  The  graves  of  our  dead  are  with  us;  and 
before  us  are  the  dreary  years  to  be  lived  by  countless 
thousands  of  youths  who  will  have  to  plunge,  unfitted,  into 
the  struggling  seas  of  life. 

This  is  the  day  of  the  wounded,  the  maimed,  the  ruined. 
We  take  thought  for  them,  we  protect  them,  we  love  them. 
But  the  day  may  come  when  they  will  no  longer  be  heroes, 
when  they  will  merely  be  young  men  whose  strong  man- 
hood, whose  flower  of  vigour,  whose  glorious  promise  of 
activity  and  of  utility  have  been  cut  off. 

Cut  off  by  the  will  of  a  few,  perhaps :  but  with  what  glad 
patriotism,  with  what  arrogant  megalomania  the  hordes 
obeyed  the  dictates  of  that  will,  and  made  its  aims  their 
own!  Cut  off,  that  the  sword  might  shine  and  the  powder 
flash,  that  material  aggrandisement  might  extend  beyond 
conceivable  limits,  that  materialist  philosophy  might  be 
imposed  upon  a  world  of  slaves, — and  that  Germany  might 
secure  larger,  better  seaports,  wider  water-ways,  stretching 
out  her  triumphant  wings  to  the  west  until  the  setting  sun, 


329 

clouded  in  their  shadow,  should  sink  to  a  mockery  of  rest 
in  oceans  of  noble  blood. 

The  crime  of  crimes  is  doubly  the  holocaust  of  the 
irreparable  dead  and  the  brand  of  suffering,  of  moral  and 
physical  infirmity,  which  years  cannot  alter  nor  efface. 
And  so,  in  all  justice,  the  least  which  can  be  asked  of  the 
world  at  large  is,  to  Remember.  These  heroes  to-day  will 
to-morrow  be  only  ruins — if,  in  selfishness  and  in  abase- 
ment, we  close  our  ears  and  our  eyes  and  our  hearts,  we 
seal  up  our  memories  and  our  consciences, — and  dare  to 
forget. 

It  is  in  order  that  I  may  not  forget — not  forget  for  the 
space  of  one  mortal  instant — that  I  have  returned  to 
Verviller,  to  the  place  made  most  sacred  to  me  by  what  it 
has  suffered,  and  by  its  association  with  one  who  has  al- 
ready been  called  upon  to  give  everything  he  had,  save  bare 
life. 

The  news  has  been  good,  of  late.  Germany's  resources 
are  evidently  running  short.  The  end  cannot  be  far  off. 
Paul  has  received  the  Croix  de  Guerre  with  a  silver  star, 
after  a  particularly  daring  and  successful  coup-de-main. 
He  has  been  recommended  for  a  four-month  course  as 
Aspirant  at  St.  Cyr,  to  be  given  his  commission  upon 
returning  to  the  trenches;  but  of  course  he  cannot  leave 
his  unit  while  these  offensives  continue. 

Marcel  has  grown  active  and  prosperous  in  a  reviving 
community.  His  sole  preoccupation,  indeed,  would  seem 
to  be  a  darkness  which,  in  spite  of  me,  sometimes  descends 
upon  my  spirits.  He  cheers  me  with  ever  the  same  halting 
step  and  hearty  cry: 

"And  what  of  it,  Pere  Aubret?  Haven't  others  gone 
through  the  mill  and  come  back,  not  much  the  worse  for 


330         THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

being  winged?  Besides,  doesn't  Paul  wear  the  scapulary 
Mademoiselle  de  Clermont  gave  him?  Only  for  her  sake, 
of  course!" 


VII 

MARCEL  has  just  left  me.  I  have  promised  I  would  try 
to  sleep.  Instead,  I  take  out  these  pages.  Where  do  I 
find  courage  to  write?  Perhaps  in  that  this  always  served 
to  draw  me  nearer  to  my  boy. 

It  has  come.  The  news  which  was  bound  to  come. 
Last  night,  a  parcel  was  brought;  things  which  belonged 
to  him.  To-day,  a  letter.  All  addressed  to  Marcel 
Lavenu.  He  waited  for  the  letter,  before  telling  me  of  the 
parcel. 

"Durancy."  That  is  the  signature.  I  have  seen  the 
name,  or  heard  it.  The  letter  is  from  him. 

Five  men  were  to  repair  the  barbed  maze.  .  .  .  Murder- 
ous fire.  .  .  .  Sergeant  Clermont  volunteered,  so  only  four 
men.  .  .  . 

Yes.    Sergeant  Clermont  never  failed. 

They  do  the  work,  and  return  unharmed.  But  a  tool 
is  missing.  A  special  tool,  hard  to  replace.  Whose? 
Durancy  confesses:  "Mine."  Those  are  tear-blots  on  the 
page,  I  think.  Dried  tear-blots.  These  others,  here,  are 
wet. 

Durancy  admits  it.  He  forgot  the  tool.  "It  must  be 
recovered."  But  he  will  not  go.  He  refused.  He  admits 
this,  too.  Face  danger,  do  the  work,  and  return  safely, 
yes — once.  But  go  a  second  time,  when  every  gun  from 
the  German  trenches  is  being  emptied  into  that  maze?  No, 


THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT         331 

not  that  sort  of  death!  Not  suicide!  For  God's  sake, 
wait  till  this  fire  slows  down.  The  tool  be  ruined?  To 
the  devil  with  the  tool! — Or  blow  out  his  brains  as  he 
stands,  then! 

Sergeant  Paul  has  neither  argued  nor  threatened.  I 
know  Sergeant  Paul.  He  must  have  seen  the  poor  wretch 
turn  pale  and  start  a-trembling;  he  has  heard  the  death- 
rattle  of  a  thousand  bullets.  He  will  not  send  a  coward  to 
sure  death.  A  man  is  needed  for  that. 

Before  we  suspect  what  he  is  doing,  he  leaps  out.    .    .    . 

They  see  him  reach  the  spot,  and  seize  the  tool;  they 
see  him  returning.  They  see  him  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
trench,  and  are  about  to  cheer.  Then  they  see  him 
wounded.  They  forget  danger,  and  spring  to  his  relief — 
Durancy  with  the  rest.  Durancy  was  one  of  the  three  who 
brought  him  in. 

The  boy  was  dying.  His  eyes  must  have  been  of  their 
deep  grey,  when  he  opened  them.  He  wanted  to  speak. 
They  listened,  bending  over  him. 

I  have  an  uncle  who  loved  me.  This  might  kill  him.  One 
of  you  must  write.  Not  to  him.  Write  to  Marcel  Lavenu. 
Quickly,  before  he  can  hear.  The  address 

His  hand  reached  feebly  towards  his  breast;  he  smiled 
upon  them  one  by  one,  his  grey  eyes  still  deepening;  he 
looked  last  upon  Durancy,  for  an  instant  longer  and  with 
an  even  gentler  message  than  for  all  the  rest — and  died. 

"Why— why?"  Aye,  Paul— why  do  I  weep  here,  alone 
in  my  desolation? 

Turning  these  pages,  my  eyes  fall  on  lines  written  of  his 
youth: 


832        THE  GIFT  OF  PAUL  CLERMONT 

One  afternoon,  on  the  hill  above  Verviller    .    .    .    Paul 

had  sought  me  out    ...    In  my  ears  the  words  rang: 

"I  would  rather  be  killed  than  kill.    .    .    .    Like  an  echo 

.     .      a  veiled,  scarcely  audible  whisper  reached  me: 

"It's  better  to  go  to  prison  than  send  a  comrade  there." 

Paul  had  been  true  to  his  life. 


THE   END 


A     000115481     4 


